THE 

NEW  JUNE 


sjdiajtajaiii 


«;r-- ■,;,:/ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


The  New  June 


The  New  yune 


BY 


HENRY    NEWBOLT 

AUTHOR   OF    'ADMIRALS   ALL,'    'THE   OLD   COUNTRY,'   ETC. 


New  York 
E.    P.    Dutton    and    Company 

1909 


A  LL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


^DEDICATORY    LETTER. 

To  Lady  Bell,  of  Rounton  Grange  and 
Mount  Grace  Priory. 


My  dear  Lady  Bell, — 

To  whom  should  the  writer  of  this  book  dedicate 
it,  if  not  to  the  owners  of  Mount  Grace,  to  the  feudal 
Superiors  of  whom  he  has  himself  held  the  Priory 
by  that  easiest  of  all  tenures — the  duty  of  appear- 
ing at  his  lord's  dinner-table  when  his  presence  is 
desired?  Be  graciously  pleased  then  to  accept  a 
story  which,  if  it  be  not  the  whole,  true,  and  un- 
doubted story  of  the  origin  of  your  famed  Carthusian 
House,  is  at  any  rate  as  near  to  truth  as  the 
union  of  history  and  my  poor  imagination  could 
make  it. 

You  will  know  what  I  mean  by  this ;  for  in  our 
loug   and  (I   hope)  interminable   converse,   we  have 


vi  DEDICATORY   LETTER. 

sometimes  spoken  of  such  things.  But  in  case  you 
should  happen  to  see  the  book  in  the  hands  of 
others,  to  whom  it  may  be  less  clear  where  I  am 
and  whither  going,  let  me  venture  to  set  down  a 
little  note  of  what  you  have  helped  me  to  see, 
that  you  may  remember,  and  bring  them  also  to 
the  same  point  of  view. 

First,   then,  if  you  should  hear  any  one   inquire 
how  far  this  narrative   is   history   and    how   far   it 
is  fiction,  I  would  beg   you   to  reply   that   for   me 
there    can    be    no    such    line    of    separation    drawn 
between  the  two.      It  is,  of  course,  always  possible 
to  borrow  great  names  and  events  from  historical 
records  and  use  them  in  frankly  unhistorioal  com- 
binations— a  good  enough  device  for  the  amusement 
of  those  who  come  too  freshly  to  the  period  to  be 
astonished  or  confused.     For  me  the  boundless  pos- 
sibilities of  this  method  rob  it  of  interest ;  it  is  too 
like  the  game  of  nursery  football — all  kicking  and 
no  rules.      I  am  restrained  too   by   a   perhaps   ex- 
aggerated  respect    for   those    who   have   once   lived 
the  life  and  borne  the  names  of  men.     The  past  is 
for  me  no  box  of  puppets :    the   faces   I   see   in   it 
have  eyes ;   the  limbs  that  stride  and  dance  on  my 
stage   are   moved,  as   it   seems   to   me,  not   by   my 
will   but   by   their   own.      I   write  of   them   not  so 
much  to  make  a  story,  as  to  puzzle  out  a  secret. 
The  problem  which  delights  me  is  this:    given  cer- 


DEDICATORY   LETTER.  Vll 

tain  facts,  to  put  together  the  life  to  which  they 
belonged;  given  a  bone  or  two,  to  reconstruct  the 
moving  breathing  organism. 

To  conciliate  my  critics,  pray  assure  them  at  this 
point  that  I  am  aware  of  the  distinction  between 
artistic  and  scientific  truth:  I  know  the  difference, 
in  solidity  and  permanence,  between  the  authentic 
material  bones  and  the  hypothetical  superstructure 

not   much   firmer   at    times   than   the   stuff  that 

dreams  are  made  of.  But  I  still  claim  to  range 
myself  with  the  historian,  for  he  too  uses  iroirja-is, 
and  he  too  has  his  answer  for  those  who  demand 
from  him  facts  and  nothing  but  facts.  "  You  show 
us  modern -looking  limbs,"  they  say, — "limbs  un- 
pioturesquely  like  our  own ;  whereas  in  the  back 
garden  we  have  found  quaint  old  bones,  which  are 
quite  different."  These  haunters  of  museums !  Will 
you  be  able  to  convince  them  that  the  monster  never 
lived  whose  body  was  in  shape,  size,  or  colour  at 
all  identical  with  his  skeleton?  Can  you  persuade 
them  that  there  was  more  than  the  fortuitous  grin 
of  the  skull  in  Hamlet's  thought  when  he  sighed, 
"I  knew  him,  Horatio,  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest"? 

Let  us  hope  so.  But  even  if  they  will  admit  a 
Muse  of  History,  and  me  among  her  followers,  they 
may  still  desire  to  know  what  part  of  my  work  is 
genuine  osseous  remains  and  what  mere  iroi-qfia — 
oheap   reconstruction.      To    that    I    hope    you    will 


Vlll  DEDICATOBY   LETTER. 

answer  gravely  that  the  analyst's  report  shows  a 
very  large  proportion  of  solid  matter :  that  of  all 
the  characters  in  the  story,  Margaret  Ingleby  is 
the  only  one  I  have  invented,  that  the  History  of 
England  has  nowhere  been  tampered  with,  and  that 
the  Heraldry  and  Genealogy  will  be  found  strictly 
correct.  Would  that  I  could  stop  there !  But  my 
love  of  the  game — of  the  pursuit  of  truth,  of  the 
hunting  of  Life  to  earth — drives  me  to  risk  all  in 
the  hope  of  gathering  a  companion  or  two  for  the 
chase.  I  say  then,  that  when  the  known  facts  had 
all  been  tabulated,  when  the  Chronicles  had  been 
read  and  criticised,  when  the  account-books,  charters, 
aud  poems  of  the  period  had  been  ransacked,  there 
still  remained  the  necessity  of  making  one  or  two 
inferences  of  faot,  and  even  of  motive,  for  which  I 
can  claim  no  authority  but  my  own  imagination.  I 
can  and  do  plead  for  that  imagination  that  it  was 
fed  on  a  sound  and  stimulating  diet  obtained  from 
Professor  Oman's  volume  of  the  Political  History  of 
England,  from  Mr  William  Brown's  monograph  on 
Mount  Grace,  and  from  a  private  conversation  with 
my  friend  Dr  William  Hunt,  which  had  a  strong 
effect  on  the  direction  of  the  story  at  the  moment 
of  its  first  stirring  into  life;  but  I  warn  those 
whom  it  may  concern,  that  if  certain  new  facts 
oould  be  discovered,  certain  inferences  disproved, 
then   here   and   there,   in   byways   of    the   plot,   the 


DEDICATORY   LETTER.  IX 

author    might,    for    all    his    care,    be    convicted    of 
writing  fiction. 

In  this  shameful  extremity  I  hope  that  you  would 
still  find  something  to  say  for  me.  Could  you  not 
plead  that  the  poor  fellow  has  at  any  rate  shown 
a  commendable  belief  in  History,  in  the  rational 
study  of  rational  beings;  that  he  is  on  the  side  of 
humanity  against  archaeology;  that  he  has  tried  to 
uphold  the  continuity  of  the  race,  the  alliance  of 
past  and  present  against  the  brute  forces  of  bar- 
barism, the  honour  of  those  who  fell  long  ago  in 
the  front  rank  to  which  we  have  succeeded  ?  Could 
you  not  here  call  in  Professor  Gilbert  Murray  to 
speak  to  the  jury  for  me,  or  Mr  Scott -James  to 
remind  them  of  the  eternal  value  of  a  sense  of 
significance  in  human  life? 

But  (lastly)  I  am  far  from  sure  that  my  choice 
of  a  subject  will  commend  my  book  to  my  con- 
temporaries. My  dear  friend  H.  G.  Wells,  I  know, 
will  find  my  belief  in  the  magic  of  places  absurd, 
my  sympathy  with  the  social  ideas  of  our  fore- 
fathers "antagonistic."  How  should  the  discoverer 
of  Utopia  believe  in  any  place  ?  How  can  one  who 
was  born  in  the  Future  be  expeoted  to  interest 
himself  in  the  Past  ?  Yet— you  might  remind  him 
— there  are  times  (and  they  oome  at  more  and  more 
frequent  intervals)  when  with  the  courage  of  genius 
and  the  effort  of  a  Superman  he  rediscovers  a  part 


X  DEDICATORY   LETTER. 

of  the  ancient  ways;  and  I  think  he  knows  that 
as  I  watch  him  tilting,  careering,  questing,  so  high- 
heartedly  and  devotedly,  up  and  down  the  world, 
I  admire  in  him  the  paradox  of  nature  by  which 
he  is  compelled  to  display  the  very  colours  he  would 
disown — to  furnish  one  more  example  of  our  best 
inheritance,  of  what  Maurice  Barres  has  called  in 
a  challenging  phrase,  "  les  dispositions  chevaleresques 
et  raisonnables." 

And  now,  commending  myself  and  my  book  to 
the  protection  of  all  your  honourable  House,  I  re- 
main always  gratefully  and  faithfully  yours, 

HENRY   NEWBOLT. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 

DREAMS   OF   YO 

I.  MERRY   BELLS      . 

II.  A   FALSE   START . 

III.  ALL  HALLOWS      . 

IV.  COR  RICARDI 
V.  JOHN   SAVAGE      . 

VL   ROGER  SWYNNERTON  . 
VII.   KNIGHTS   IN   COUNCIL 
VIII.   TOO  YOUNG 
IX.   JOHN   MEETS   HIS   MASTER 

X.   ST  INGLEBERT     . 
XI.   REYNAULT  DE  ROYE  . 
XII.    COCKS   OF   THE   GAME 
XIII.   THE   FORTUNE   OF   JOHN   MARLAND 


PAOE 

3 

8 
11 
16 
22 
26 
29 
35 
38 
44 
55 
58 
62 


PART   II. 
SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 


XIV.   THE   AIR   OF   THE   NEW   JUNE 
XV.   IN   ARNCLIFFE   WOODS 
XVI.   MANORIAL  RIGHTS       . 


71 

77 
83 


Xll 


CONTENTS. 


XVII.  TALES   OF   THE   NIGHT     . 

XVIII.  STEALING   A   MARCH 

XIX.  STUTTERVILLE'S   HOLIDAY 

XX.  THE   LINE   OF   DIVISION  . 

XXI.  THE   BURIAL   OF   DE    VERE 

XXII.  THE  YOUNG   ST   GEORGE 

XXIII.  A   SPIRITUAL   PEDIGREE 

XXIV.  A    PAIR   OF   NOBLE   LORDS 


87 
100 
104 

110 
115 

122 
125 
130 


PART  III. 

LIGHT   IN   THE   EAST. 

XXV.  A   PRINCE'S   HOUSEHOLD 

XXVI.  FAREWELL   FANTASIES     . 

XXVII.  FROM   WEST  TO   EAST 

XXVIII.  THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE    VENIERA 

XXIX.  GERUSALEMME   IRREDENTA      . 

XXX.  ONE   WAY   OF   GOVERNING 

XXXI.  THE   CITY   OF  THE   HUNDRED   TOWERS 

XXXII.  THE   WHITE   HART  .... 

XXXIII.  A   DIALOGUE   IN   THE   DARK     . 

XXXIV.  THE   FOUNDER   OF  THE   CERTOSA     . 
XXXV.  BACK   TO   THE   BEGINNING        .  . 


139 
144 
148 
151 
153 
163 
172 
175 
179 
185 
197 


PART    IV. 
SUNRISE. 

XXXVI.  THE   SPIDER'S   LAST   WEB 

XXXVII.  MEN   AND   MOTIVES 

XXXVIII.  THE   NEW   LORD   KENT     . 

XXXIX.  THE   HAND   OF   THE    HARPER 

XL.  A   NIGHT   MARCH      . 

XLL  SUNRISE   AT   PLESHEY      . 


205 
211 
216 
220 
228 
232 


CONTENTS 

XLII.    EXIT   GLOUCESTER      . 

XLIIf.    A   TREATY   OF   MARRIAGE  . 

XLIV.   THE   KING'S  WEDDING  GIFT 
XLV.   OUT   OF  THE   WORLD 

XLVI.   A  WOMAN'S   TEARS     . 
XLVII.    FROM    WESTMINSTER  TO   TOWER   HILL 
XLVIII.   THE   SUN    IN   HIS   SPLENDOUR    . 


XI 11 

240 
241 
246 
249 
254 
259 
265 


PAKT  V. 

SUNDOWN. 

XLTX.   CHARTERED   AND   UNCHARTERED 
L.   A   SAIL  OFF   BLACKROCK 

LI.  renard's  hospitality 

LII.   SWORD   OR  DAGGER 
Lin.   A   DOG   AND   A   TRAITOR 
LIV.   THE  DAY   OF   TRIAL 
LV.   STROKE   AND   COUNTERSTROKE 
LVI.    ON   THE   FAITH   OF   MY   BODY 
LVII.   GONE   AWAY  !     . 
LVIII.   MARCH   AND   COUNTERMARCH 
LIX.   MAIDENHEAD   BRIDGE 
LX.   BLOCKHAM   FEAST       . 
LXI.   THE   PATH   TO   FLAUNDEN 


275 
282 
286 
290 
293 
297 
301 
306 
309 
311 
313 
319 
328 


PART  VI. 
LIGHT   IN   THE    WEST. 


LXII.    MOUNT   GRACE  . 
LXIII.    FROM   TIME  TO   ETERNITY 
LXIV.    AN   IMPERFECT   VOCATION 

LXV.   THE  SOLITUDE   OF   ST   BRUNO 
LXVI.   A   VOICE   FROM   WITHOUT 


335 

338 
344 

348 
351 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


LXVII.    THE   PRIOR'S   WISDOM 
LXVIII.   A   LOVER'S   LUCK 
LXIX.   THE   MESSENGER 
LXX.    THE   CHOICE       . 
LXXI.    HATELEY   FIELD 
LXXII.   THE   GREAT   CLOISTER 


355 
358 
363 
367 
373 
380 


"To  be  a  true  historian  is  to  be  able  to  look  at  the 
present  as  if  it  were  the  past,  and  at  the  past  as  if  it 
were  the  present.  .  .  .  How  unlike  the  past  was  to 
the  present,  and  yet  how  much  of  the  present  there 
must  always  have  been  in  the  past ! " 

—Bight  Hon.  Jambs  Bbyob. 


PART    I. 


DREAMS    OF    YOUTH 


I. 


A  FLOOD  of  sunshine  was  pouring  aslant  John  Mar- 
land's  room ;  voices  came  up  from  the  street  below, 
and  the  air  quivered  with  a  sound  of  bells.  They 
woke  the  sleeper,  but  did  not  rouse  him :  the  dreams 
of  night  passed  imperceptibly  into  the  dreams  of 
day,  and  for  some  time  he  lay  motionless,  looking 
through  half  -  closed  eyes  at  the  bright  illimitable 
world  that  lay  beyond  the  open  square  of  his  latticed 
window.  The  still  blue  radiance  of  the  sky  in  that 
spring  morning  seemed  to  be  an  image  of  the  life 
that  lay  before  him — a  clear  and  formless  outlook, 
without  landmarks  or  boundaries,  without  even  a 
cloud  to  chequer  it.  It  was  almost  too  unlimited, 
too  dazzling ;  John  closed  his  eyes  again,  and  turned 
back  to  the  more  solid  picture-book  of  his  childhood 
and  youth,  full  of  vivid  scenes  :  some  were  in  strongly 
contrasted  colours,  but  all,  as  he  saw  now,  consistent 
parts  in  a  pageant  of  unbroken  happiness.  He  saw 
the  house  of  Gardenleigh,  where  he  was  born,  with 
the  steep  down  behind  it  and  the  tranquil  mirror  of 
the  lake  stretching  below:  on  the  far  side  loomed 
the  big  oak,  under  which  he  used  to  land  for  the 
invasion  of  France.     Up  the  valley  to  the  left  lay  his 


4  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

favourite  primrose  bank :  to-day,  in  this  warm  lull 
of  the  March  wind,  the  pale  stars  would  be  breaking 
out  among  the  beech-roots ;  the  faint  sweet  smell  of 
the  flowers  and  the  earth  floated  round  him  for  a 
moment,  and  passed  as  if  a  light  breeze  had  carried 
it  away  again.  He  saw  the  day  fade  in  the  great 
gallery  where  his  sisters  and  he  had  so  often,  when 
dusk  brought  them  indoors  to  their  mother,  drawn 
their  little  trefoil-headed  stools  close  about  her  high 
velvet  chair,  and  asked  innumerable  questions  about 
their  father :  they  hardly  remembered  him,  but  they 
always  thought  they  did;  they  knew  which  of  the 
cold  stiff  suits  of  armour  had  been  his,  and  every 
year  in  September  they  crowned  his  helm  with 
oak-leaves  in  honour  of  Poitiers.  With  that  the 
scene  changed :  he  remembered  now  the  long  ride 
into  Cheshire,  when  his  boyhood  ended  and  he 
went,  as  he  told  himself,  from  home  into  the  world. 
The  world  of  Eastwich !  that  quiet  remote  northern 
valley,  with  its  black-and-white  timbered  Hall,  its 
bitter  frozen  winters,  and  the  household  discipline 
of  old  Sir  William  Mells,  almost  as  cold  and  hard 
for  the  green  buds  of  youth.  How  his  heart 
shrank  when  his  mother  rode  away  south  and  left 
him  to  it !  Well,  he  was  a  man  now,  and  had 
filled  his  uncle's  shoes  these  six  months  past : 
he  could  afford  to  smile  at  the  severity  of  the 
training,  the  more  whole-heartedly  because  the  old 
man  had  been  at  last  so  proud  of  him.  Chester 
and  Stafford  !  those  were  jousts  worthy  of  the  best, 


MEKKY    BELLS.  5 

Sir  William  said :  and  John  had  done  well  there. 
He  had  won  no  prize,  but  he  had  suffered  no 
overthrow,  and  he  had  learnt  both  skill  and  confi- 
dence. His  blood  quickened  at  the  recollection:  he 
felt  the  eager  pawing  of  the  good  horse  beneath 
him,  and  the  hot  steam  of  his  own  breath  inside 
the  helm :  he  heard  the  muffled  blare  of  the 
trumpets  sounding  the  laissez-aller,  and  the  swift 
beat  of  hoofs  over  the  turf:  his  heart  stood  still 
again  with  the  shock  of  the  cope,  and  leapt  again 
with  the  triumphant  consciousness  of  his  own 
strength  as  he  passed  on  undefeated.  So  it  had 
been,  so  it  should  be,  and  better,  at  St  Inglebert, 
in  the  great  match  of  England  against  France. 

He  was  wide  awake  now,  with  little  desire  left 
for  lying  still :  his  eyes  roved  round  the  room  as 
he  raised  himself  on  his  arm.  How  warm  and 
bright  the  sun  was,  how  gaily  those  bells  were 
ringing!  St  Inglebert!  St  Inglebert!  —  it  was 
an  omen  surely  that  to-day,  at  his  first  hearing  of 
them,  the  famous  bells  of  Westminster  should  be 
singing  to  him  of  St  Inglebert.  He  felt,  rather 
than  thought  it ;  but  he  was  certainly  a  little  ex- 
alted by  the  sound  and  by  the  spring  in  his  blood, 
and  with  the  instability  of  youth  fell  immediately 
from  that  height  of  fancy  to  the  lowest  pitch  of 
his  whole  meditation :  he  remembered  his  new 
clothes,  and  remembered  them  with  pleasure. 

There  they  lay  upon  the  settle  by  the  wall,  neatly 
laid  out  by  the  silent  swift  decorum  of  his  servant 


6  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

while  he  was  still  asleep,  in  readiness  for  his  first 
day   in    London,   for  his  entry,    this    time,  into   the 
real    world :    for    to  -  day,    beyond   question,    he    was 
beginning  life.     There  they  lay,   and  now  that  the 
moment    was    come    they    gave    him,    he    perceived 
with  relief,   exactly  the  same  satisfaction  that  they 
had    been    giving   him    at   intervals    ever    since   the 
day  when  he  planned  and   ordered  them.     His  eye 
dwelt   critically   but    with   cool   final   confidence   on 
the    fresh   black    and    silver    of   the    coat :    the   cut 
was  elaborate  without  being  fantastic,   the  colouss 
were    his    own    colours,    the    colours    of    his    shield 
— they    were    well    suited    to    the    sober    dignity   of 
three  -  and  - 1  wenty  ;    they  made,  as  he  had  thought 
they  would,  a  dress  both  modest  and  distinguished, 
aud  he  longed  to  see  himself  in  it  among  the  rest. 
He    paused    there    and    frowned :    a    small    cloud 
showed  upon  the  horizon.     "Among  the  rest"  was 
a    touch   of    vanity,    and    brought   its    own   punish- 
ment.    Among  the  rest  he  would  be  but  a  green- 
horn still,  a  new-comer  from  the  outside  :  his  colours 
might    please    himself,    but    they    would    not    hide 
from   the    rest   the    uncoutlmess  of   his   half -fledged 
quills.     Well-dressed,  well-born,   well-educated,   rich, 
and  strong — yes,  but  none  the  less  without  experi- 
ence  of  London  or  the  Court.     Give  him  time  and 
he  feared  nothing — these  were  only  tricks  of  fashion: 
but   when    youth   holds   the    scales    fashion   weighs 
down  all  the  virtues,   and  at  the  first  blush,  when 
every    small   mistake   is   a    bitter   humiliation,    how 


MERRY   BELLS.  7 

was  his  ignorance  to  carry  it  off  among  the  rest? 
The  doubt  pestered  him :  it  circled  round  him  like 
a  fly,  settling  again  and  again  on  the  same  spot. 
If  only  manners  could  be  learned  like  morals,  from 
nurses  and  tutors  and  good  plain  country  uncles : 
if  only  they  could  be  practised,  as  he  had  practised 
his  tilting,  upon  remote  and  solitary  downs  like 
that  by  Gardenleigh :  if  only  his  father's  career 
had  not  ended  suddenly  in  his  own  childhood, — but 
these  were  old  regrets,  and  the  old  consolations 
soon  dispersed  them  once  more.  After  all,  he  had 
already  taken  his  place  among  men,  had  learned 
to  smile  and  nod  and  hold  his  tongue,  to  give  hard 
knocks  and  take  harder  ones :  after  all,  he  knew 
very  well  that  it  was  not  every  young  man's  luck 
to  start  life  with  two  knight's  fees  for  his  portion, 
and  the  repute  of  three  generations  of  good  soldiers 
behind  him. 

So  the  sun  still  shone  as  he  sprang  out  of  bed, 
and  the  voices  in  the  street  sounded  like  the 
voices  of  friends  and  jolly  fellows :  and  all  the 
time  that  he  was  dressing  in  the  black  and  silver 
suit,  the  bells  continued  their  triumphant  jangle  of 
St  Ingtebert,  St  Inglebert. 


8  DliliiAMS    OJb1   VOU'itt. 


II. 


In  little  more  than  an  hour's  time  he  was  riding 
through  the  city,  attended  by  the  best -looking  of 
his  grooms.  It  grieved  him  to  appear  with  only 
one  retainer  on  so  important  an  occasion,  but  he 
had  felt  obliged  to  leave  the  others  free  for  the 
business  of  packing  up :  they  must  be  ready  to 
start  for  France  at  any  moment  after  his  return. 
As  for  his  own  errand,  it  had  about  it  much  of 
the  vagueness,  as  well  as  the  far-reaching  ambition, 
that  marks  the  plans  of  youth.  It  was  ambitious 
to  choose  the  great  jousts  of  St  Inglebert  for  his 
first  appearance,  and  still  more  so  to  think  of 
entering  the  field  in  the  train  of  the  Earl  of 
Huntingdon,  one  of  the  best  jousters  in  England, 
and  half-brother  to  the  King  himself.  The  vague- 
ness lay  in  the  arrangements  by  which  all  this 
was  to  be  brought  about.  When  the  news  had 
reached  him  of  the  challenge  issued  by  the  French 
champions,  he  had  ordered  a  new  suit  of  armour 
and  put  his  horses  in  training  at  once :  but  he  had 
made  no  other  preparation  beyond  writing  to  his 
friend  John  Savage,  a  young  Cheshire  squire  in  the 
Earl's  service,  to  ask  if  he  could  inform  him  of  the 
best  means  of  reaching  Calais  and  putting  his  name 
down  for  the  contest.  Savage,  who  was  only  a 
year  or  two  older  than  himself,  and  had  much  less 


A    FALSE   START.  9 

time  at  his  own  disposal,  replied  even  more  brieily 
that  "  everyone "  was  going  and  that  everything 
would  be  all  right :  they  were  to  start  on  the 
Feast  of  Gregory  the  Great,  and  if  Marland  would 
present  himself  on  that  day  some  time  before  dinner, 
he  could  take  the  road  with  them  and  get  the 
advantage  of  the  Earl's  transport  service  for  the 
crossing.  But  it  was  now  some  months  since  this 
invitation  had  been  so  lightly  given,  and  Marland 
had  not  even  troubled  to  accept  it. 

By  the  time  the  Tower  came  in  sight  he  began 
to  wish  he  had  been  rather  more  business-like,  and 
the  feeling  grew  stronger  as  he  turned  out  of 
Harp  Lane  and  saw  the  broader  expanse  of  Thames 
Street  to  right  and  left  of  him.  He  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  but  a  second  glance  showed  him  that 
"The  New  June,"  for  which  he  was  bound,  was 
almost  certainly  the  great  house  overlooking  the 
river  towards  the  western  end  of  the  street ;  and 
as  he  rode  up  to  it  he  saw  that  he  was  right: 
the  painted  shields  on  either  side  of  the  gate  bore 
the  three  golden  lions,  with  nothing  but  a  narrow 
bordure  of  fleurs-de-lis  to  distinguish  them  from 
the  royal  arms  of  England. 

The  sight  of  so  splendid  a  cognisance,  and  the 
sudden  apprehension  of  all  that  it  implied,  almost 
took  his  breath :  in  one  moment  of  panic  he  came 
to  a  full  understanding  of  his  own  careless  pre- 
sumption. But  it  was  too  late  to  draw  back:  his 
horse  had    stopped   of  itself  before  the   great   door, 


10  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 

and  the  guard  had  already  turned  out — two  fellows 
in  scarlet  with  tall  bright  poleaxes,  between  whom 
a  smooth-faced  porter  advanced  with  an  obsequious 
air. 

John  Savage  was  out  of  town:  the  Earl  was 
out  of  town :  the  Countess  was  out  of  town. 

Marland  could  have  wrung  his  neck  for  the 
smooth  indifference  of  his  tone. 

"You  know,  I  suppose,  where  they  are?"  he  said. 

"  The  Countess  is  at  Dartington ;  the  Earl  and 
all  his  gentlemen  have  gone  abroad." 

"So  I  understand,"  said  John,"  but  I  thought  they 
were  to  start  to-day." 

"They  start  to-day  from  Dover." 

The  man  bowed  him  out  with  the  same  impassive 
courtesy,  and  disappeared :  John  turned  moodily  from 
the  gateway,  signalling  to  his  groom  for  the  horses. 
The  halberdiers  watched  him  with  some  interest.  "A 
day  or  two  late  for  the  fair,"  said  one  to  the  other 
with  a  nod. 

"Aw,  early  enough,"  the  fellow  replied;  "he'll  be 
in  plenty  of  time  for  a  headache."  He  tucked  his 
poleaxe  under  his  arm,  like  a  lance  in  the  rest,  and 
bent  over  it;  then  suddenly  threw  up  his  head  and 
both  hands  in  the  attitude  of  a  knight  flung  back- 
ward from  his  horse. 

John  mounted  carefully,  pretending  not  to  see ;  but 
as  he  rode  away  he  realised  sharply  that  though  he 
had  reached  the  Court,  he  was  still  outside  it. 


ALL   HALLOWS.  11 


III. 


After  all  there  was  no  great  harm  done:  embar- 
rassing as  his  impudence  had  been,  the  man  with 
the  poleaxe  was  quite  right.  Since  the  jousting 
was  only  to  begin  on  Monday  week,  and  to  con- 
tinue for  a  full  month,  there  was  little  fear  of  being 
late.  It  would  have  been  easier  for  a  novice,  and 
pleasanter  too,  no  doubt,  to  make  the  journey  in 
company,  but  for  a  man  with  his  pockets  full  of 
money  there  could  be  no  difficulty  in  making  it 
alone.  John  remembered  that  all  his  people  were 
to  be  ready  for  the  start  by  midday :  nothing  was 
changed  on  his  side,  and  not  one  of  his  arrange- 
ments needed  to  be  reconsidered. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  some  hours  to  spend 
as  he  pleased.  He  first  rode  straight  to  the  Tower, 
and  great  as  his  expectation  was,  it  was  in  no  way 
disappointed.  He  had  a  strong  feeling  for  the 
romance  of  history,  and  here  in  one  long -antici- 
pated moment,  as  he  cleared  the  eastern  end  of 
Thames  Street,  it  seemed  to  be  suddenly  embodied 
before  his  eyes.  The  broad  moat,  running  east  and 
north  from  the  angle  where  he  had  halted,  the  long 
low  curtain -walls,  the  massive  river  gate  beneath, 
the  drawbridges  and  rounded  outworks  above — all 
these,  and  the  picturesque  confusion  of  them,  pleased 
him  greatly;   but  again  and  again  he  turned  from 


12  DREAMS   OP    rOUTH. 

them  to  the  central  keep  that  dominated  them.  As 
he  saw  it  under  the  still  brightness  of  the  March 
morning,  with  the  high  straight  lines  of  its  white 
quoins  and  the  severe  round  arches  of  its  far- up 
windows,  shining  clear  through  a  faint  haze  of  blue 
smoke  from  the  buildings  below,  it  seemed  to  him 
to  be  infinitely  remote  from  the  splendours  and  the 
trivialities  of  modern  times  :  it  was  dreaming  still 
of  the  grim  methodical  Norman  and  the  long  dead 
century  of  its  first  youth.  He  would  have  given 
much  to  enter ;  but  to  be  repulsed  again,  and  here, 
was  more  than  he  could  risk. 

He  tore  himself  away  at  last  and  began  slowly 
to  ascend  the  hill.  To  his  left,  on  the  slope  of  the 
high  green  bank  above  the  entrance  to  Tower  Street, 
stood  a  gray  stone  church,  surrounded  on  three  sides 
by  a  churchyard  of  unusual  extent  and  beautifully 
kept :  on  the  south  side  a  finely  carved  porch  with 
a  flight  of  stone  steps  came  right  down  upon  the 
street.  Here  again  was  antiquity  in  its  most  at- 
tractive form,  and  breathing  a  spirit  which  had 
been  wanting  even  to  the  White  Tower;  for  the 
music  of  a  psalm,  chanted  by  trained  voices  with- 
out accompaniment,  rolled  in  wave  after  wave  from 
the  chancel  and  laid  a  spell  like  that  of  memory  upon 
the  listener  below. 

John  was  fundamentally  religious,  like  the  great 
mass  of  his  fellow-countrymen  :  he  shared,  certainly, 
some  of  the  unorthodox  opinions  of  his  age,  he  had 
a  general  tendency  to  mistrust   the  clergy,  and  his 


ALL   HALLOWS.  13 

boyhood  had  been  one  long  rebellion  against  enforced 
attendance  at  church  ;  but  the  power  of  association 
had  all  the  time  been  binding  him  with  imperceptible 
bonds,  and  since  he  had  been  his  own  master  he  had 
come  to  find  a  new  pleasure  in  devotions  practised 
when  and  where  he  chose.  At  this  moment  the 
choice  was  not  in  doubt ;  before  the  alternating 
roll  of  the  chant  had  gathered  itself  into  the  unison 
of  the  Gloria,  he  had  slipped  from  his  saddle,  climbed 
the  steps,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  iron  latchet 
of  the  porch  door. 

The  music  ceased,  and  he  entered.  The  interior 
of  the  church  was  massive  and  severe,  simply  an 
arcade  of  plain  round  pillars  and  a  bare  open  chan- 
cel: the  first  glance  traversed  it  from  end  to  end, 
and  to  Marland's  great  surprise  it  was  entirely 
empty.  But  as  he  advanced  into  the  nave  he 
heard  faintly  the  sound  of  a  voice  reciting  prayers, 
and  perceived  at  the  same  moment  a  door  in  the 
wall  of  the  north  aisle.  By  this,  too,  he  stood 
listening  for  a  moment,  and  then  opened  it  quietly 
during  an  interval  of  silence.  He  had  no  sooner 
done  so  than  he  stopped  short  in  surprise :  he 
seemed  to  have  passed  under  some  sudden  illusion, 
so  striking  was  the  change  from  the  monastic  bare- 
ness of  the  church  itself  to  the  dim,  rich  splendour 
of  the  chapel  in  which  he  now  stood.  The  roof 
was  of  white  stone,  and  vaulted  plainly  after  the 
Noiunan  fashion,  but  the  arch  was  lofty  and  grace- 
ful ;  the  walls  were  covered  with  frescoes,  and   the 


14  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

roundheaded  windows  of  the  original  style  had  been 
replaced  by  longer  pointed  lights  filled  with  exquisite 
stained  armorial  glass  :  those  at  the  east  end  were 
deeply  recessed  behind  slender  groups  of  detached 
pillars,  rising  at  the  head  into  quadruple  mould- 
ings of  great  beauty.  The  altar  itself  was  invisible, 
behind  the  Lenten  Veil ;  but  from  the  altar  steps 
westwards  the  little  building  was  pannelled  with 
the  finest  carved  woodwork,  now  dark  with  age ; 
and  John  saw  as  he  glanced  quickly  to  right  and 
left  of  the  door  by  which  he  stood,  that  the  choir 
stalls,  elaborate  as  they  were,  bore  no  comparison 
with  the  magnificence  of  those  at  the  west  end, 
which  had  lofty  canopies,  relieved  with  gold,  and 
were  furnished  with  gilt  sconces  and  with  cushions 
and  footstools  of  the  richest  crimson  velvet. 

To-day  the  canopies  were  all  unoccupied,  but  they 
seemed  hardly  to  offer  a  seat  to  a  chance  visitor.  On 
the  other  hand  the  nearest  choir -stall  was  vacant, 
and  one  of  the  clerks  made  a  sign  of  invitation. 
John  took  the  place  and  began  to  look  about  him. 
The  sense  of  splendour  was  heightened  as  his  eye 
dwelt  upon  every  detail  in  turn,  and  he  was  not 
unprepared  for  the  discovery  which  he  presently 
made,  that  the  two  central  canopies  facing  the 
altar  were  inlaid  with  small  plates  of  gold,  on 
which  the  royal  arms  of  England  were  enamelled 
in  colours.  No  wonder  the  chapel  was  splendid, 
Rince  it  was  evidently  King  Richard's  own;  but 
the    pride    of    youth    was    hardly    abashed    by    this 


ALL  HALLOWS.  15 

reflection,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  remembrance 
of  his  own  birth  and  possessions  was  stirring  John's 
thoughts  to  emulation,  or  at  least  to  imitation,  of 
his  sovereign  lord's  magnificence:  he  resolved  to 
enrich  his  own  two  churches  by  the  addition  of 
stained-glass  windows,  and  decided  that  his  own 
seats  should  be  furnished  with  velvet.  Perhaps, 
however,  crimson  was  not  the  most  suitable  colour: 
he  had  a  sense  of  proportion,  and  besides,  he  liked 
his  sumptuousness  to  be  visible  at  the  second  glance 
rather  than  the  first :  it  seemed  to  him  to  make 
just  the  difference  between  ostentation  and  good 
taste.  To  be  splendid  for  himself  and  those  who 
could  find  him  out  —  that  was  his  desire,  and  he 
revelled  in  it,  only  mechanically  sharing  in  the 
service  which  was  going  on  around  him. 

But  presently  his  reverie  was  dispersed  and  he 
found  his  eyes  riveted  upon  a  face  opposite  to  him. 
It  was  that  of  one  of  the  singing  men,  a  tall, 
dark,  handsome  fellow,  who  sang  with  a  concen- 
tration that  marked  him  off  from  the  rest,  and 
whose  features,  when  in  repose,  had  an  expression 
of  very  uncommon  power  and  a  kind  of  sad  ser- 
enity. Clearly,  as  John  saw,  not  the  face  of  a 
man  of  his  own  class :  it  was  too  thin,  too  clever, 
too  intent  upon  the  work  in  hand :  yet,  whether 
he  approved  or  no,  he  was  held  by  the  grip  of  a 
personality  which,  he  had  enough  insight  to  sus- 
pect, was  a  rarer  and  a  stronger  one  than  his 
own.     The    man    was    older    than    himself,    and    his 


16  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 

thoughts  had  probably  nothing  in  common  with 
those  of  a  landed  gentleman :  but  there  were 
thoughts  there,  and  John  found  himself  again  and 
again  coming  back  to  wonder  what  they  were. 
The  mere  surmise  of  them  was  keeping  two  in- 
teresting churches  out  of  window -glass  and  velvet 
hassocks. 


IV. 


When  the  service  was  over  and  the  procession  left 
the  chapel,  John  followed  the  bidding  of  a  curi- 
osity that  refused  to  depart  unsatisfied.  He  paced 
slowly  up  and  down  the  church,  keeping  watch 
while  the  priest  and  choristers  returned  by  ones 
and  twos  from  the  vestry  and  hurried  out  of  the 
building.  The  tall  dark  man  came  nearly  last, 
and  there  was  no  one  with  him :  he  was  dressed 
very  plaiuly,  with  a  weather-beaten  cloak  of  dark 
grey  hanging  from  rather  round  shoulders,  and  he 
carried  in  his  hand  a  bonnet  of  cloth  which  had 
once  been  blue.  Poor  he  evidently  was,  but  of 
a  class  outside  John's  experience:  for  he  seemed 
to  have  nothing  about  him  of  the  noble,  military, 
clerical,  rustic,  or  servile  elements  of  society.  Pre- 
sumably he  was  akin  to  the  clerical,  but  there  was 
an  outdoor  swing  in  his  walk,  and  a  turn  of  his 
head,  that  spoke  of  freedom  and  even   of  reckless- 


COR  RICARDI.  17 

ness.  He  showed  no  surprise  at  seeing  Marland 
directly  in  his  path  and  evidently  about  to  speak 
with  him. 

"  You  are  looking  for  me,  sir  ? "  he  asked. 

"No,"  replied  John,  astonished  at  being  spoken 
to  first ;  "  not  originally,  I  mean.  I  came  here  .  .  . 
for  a  different  reason."  The  other  looked  straight 
at  him  with  a  smile  of  intelligence.  "  So  did  I," 
he  said;  "we  are  both  disappointed."  John  was 
still  more  surprised :  the  tone  was  courteous,  but 
it  might  have  been  that  of  an  equal. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  replied  more  firmly; 
"  what  is  it  that  you  and  I  have  in  common  ?  " 

"Speech,"  said  the  other. 

"If  that  is  all"  .  .  .  said  John,  reddening  at 
the  check. 

"No,"  replied  the  stranger,  "we  both  had  hope." 

"Hope?" 

"To  see  the  king." 

John  looked  instinctively  towards  the  door  of  the 
chapel :  this  man's  voice  had  made  the  words  so 
living  that  he  felt  himself  for  an  instant  almost  in 
the  Presence.  The  moment  passed,  and  he  turned 
back  to  his  companion. 

"But  I  came  here  by  chance,"  he  said. 

"Then  I  am  wrong,"  replied  the  other,  "and  sorry 
for  it."     He  moved  as  though  to  take  his  leave. 

"Why  are  you  sorry?"  asked  John,  "and  what 
did  you  expect  of  me  ?  " 

The  straight  look  met  him  again.     "I  no  longer 

B 


18  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

expect,  but  I  always  hope.  I  watch  them  come 
in  shoals  to  the  net :  all  young,  all  supple  and 
shining,"  —  he  seemed  to  glance  at  the  new  suit, 
— "but  common  herring  every  one  —  nothing  big 
among  them — so  far." 

John  began  to  catch  his  meaning.  "If  you 
thought  I  had  newly  come  to  Court,  you  were  not 
so  wrong :  only  if  I  am  to  serve  any  one,  it  is  not 
the  king,  but  his  brother." 

"Ah!"  said  the  stranger,  looking  thoughtfully 
at  him  but  speaking  almost  to  himself.  "  A  hard 
roe,  not  a  soft  one,  this  time :  but  are  they  not  all 
the  king's — every  fish  in  the  four  seas  ?  " 

"Certainly  I  am  the  king's,  if  he  will  take  me." 
John's  head  went  up. 

"  Ay ! "  cried  his  companion  suddenly  with  a  kind 
of  poetic  fervour  that  embarrassed  John  but  held 
him  fast.  "  One  more  silver  belly,  if  the  net  will 
take  it !  But  where  among  all  these  is  the  dolphin 
for  the  day  of  shipwreck?  It  is  smooth  sailing  now 
and  pretty  sport  with  the  glittering  little  lords;  but 
when  the  squall  comes,  which  of  them  will  carry 
the  king  ashore?  I  go  up  and  down  England 
looking  for  a  man :  1  find  none,  there  or  here : 
Hollands  and  Mowbrays,  Rutlands  and  Scropes, 
they  take  their  pastime  between  their  sleep,  and 
their  sleep  between  their  pastimes,  like  the  gay 
figures  on  a  clock,  whose  only  sign  of  life  is  to 
come  out  when  every  hour  strikes,  and  ride  their 
little  round  without  change  or  meaning." 


COR   RICARDL  19 

The  tone  was  sad  rather  than  angry,  but  John 
felt  a  bitterness  in  it  that  twisted  his  own  tongue. 

"A  passage  of  arms  means  nothing  to  a  clerk," 
he  said,   "but  it  means  a  good  deal  to  a  soldier." 

"I  have  seen  war,"  said  the  other,  "and  I  shall 
see  it  again;  but  for  what  war  do  these  lords  train 
themselves?  When  they  have  spent  the  treasure 
their  fathers  won  in  France,  they  will  seek  more 
in  England:  when  they  have  plundered  the  poor, 
they  will  scheme  to  sack  each  other:  they  live  by 
getting  wealth,  not  by  making  it." 

"You  don't  touch  me  there,"  replied  John  with 
satisfaction.  "My  property  is  my  own,  well  got 
and  well  kept :  I  do  my  duty  to  my  people,  and 
I  will  do  my  duty  to  the  king  when  my  time 
comes." 

"Will  you?"  cried  the  other  eagerly;  "will  you 
swear  it?  Come!"  He  turned  towards  the  door  of 
the  royal  chapel,  which  the  sacristan  was  preparing 
to  lock,  and  John  followed  him  almost  against  his 
own  will.  He  had  the  shamefacedness  and  conven- 
tionality of  his  age,  but  there  were  no  witnesses 
here,  and  the  stranger  carried  him  away  by  the 
touch  of  romance  he  mingled  with  his  earnestness. 

They  passed  quickly  and  without  a  word  up  the 
length  of  the  chapel,  and  stopped  immediately  under 
the  Lenten  Veil.  The  singing -man  bent  down  and 
with  great  reverence  pushed  back  the  lower  edge  of 
the  drapery :  in  the  pavement  close  before  the  altar 
John  saw  a  plain  stone  with  a  large  Crusader's  cross 


20  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 

upon  it,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  cross  a  heart :  to 
right  and  left  were  carved  in  bold  letters  the  words, 
Cor  Ricardi  Cor  Leonis. 

"What  is  a  king?"  said  the  stranger  in  a  low 
voice ;  "  what  but  a  sunrise  and  a  sunset :  a  day  in 
the  life  of  a  great  nation.  The  Lion's  Heart  was  a 
king  once :  but  with  him  it  has  been  night  these 
two  hundred  years.  It  is  morning  still  with  our 
Lord  Richard,  —  morning  with  the  dew  upon  it : 
there  has  been  no  such  promise  yet  in  any  kingdom 
under  the  rainbow  roof." 

He  spoke  passionately,  and  John  began  to  feel  an 
answering  emotion :  he  had  been  bred  in  the  chief 
centre  of  English  loyalty,  where  the  king  was  al- 
ways right,  always  adored.  His  companion  laid  a 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  he  did  not  resent  it. 
Then  the  stranger  fell  upon  his  knees,  drawing 
John  down  with  him. 

"  Make  your  vow  here,"  he  said,  "  that  in  what- 
ever company  you  may  be,  henceforth  so  long  as 
you  and  the  king  shall  both  live,  never  will  you 
take  rest  by  night  or  by  day  without  this  prayer 
first  spoken  aloud,  'God  save  Richard,  King  of 
England.'" 

John,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  stone  heart  below, 
took  the  vow  willingly  enough :  it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  done  such  a  thing,  but  he  had 
heard  the  like  of  Chandos  and  And  ley  and  other 
heroes  of  the  past.  For  a  moment  longer  he  re- 
mained   kneeling,    to   collect    his    thoughts.      When 


COR  RICARDI.  21 

he  rose  he  became  aware  that  his  companion  had 
left  him,  and  was  striding  rapidly  down  the  aisle. 

He  followed  more  slowly,  and  when  he  reached 
the  door  found  the  church  entirely  deserted,  except 
by  the  sacristan,  who  was  still  waiting  patiently 
with  the  keys.  He  gave  the  old  man  a  piece  of 
money,  and  asked  him  who  was  that  who  had 
just  gone  out. 

"We  take  him  for  his  voice,  sir,  and  he  comes 
and  goes  as  he  likes.  My  lord  the  king  has  been 
pleased  to  notice  him  for  his  voice,  and  it  is  likely 
that  sets  him  up  a  little,  but  he  is  an  innocent 
creature,  sir." 

John  frowned :  the  apology  seemed  inappropriate. 
"  But  who  is  he  ? "  he  asked,  rather  peremptorily. 

"We  call  him  William,  sir,  but  I  don't  know  if 
that  be  his  name.  He  is  quite  harmless,  sir,  you 
understand." 

Outside  the  horses  were  waiting :  John  rode  away 
at  a  sharp  pace,  and  was  glad  to  be  in  the  sun- 
shine again,  but  his  horizon  seemed  hardly  so  un- 
clouded now.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  something  to 
forget. 


22  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 


V. 


John  made  his  journey  slowly:  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  part  company  with  his  baggage,  for  it 
contained,  among  other  valuables,  the  armour  which 
had  cost  so  much  and  upon  which  so  much  de- 
pended. He  slept  at  Dartford,  Sittingbourne,  and 
Canterbury  \  crossed  early  on  the  fourth  day,  and 
was  in  Calais  before  noon.  His  friend  John  Savage 
was  expecting  him,  for  he  had  sent  an  express 
messenger  in  advance,  and  every  preparation  had 
been  made  for  putting  up  his  men  and  horses :  he 
himself  was  to  share  the  house  in  which  his  friend 
and  another  squire  were  already  lodged,  close  to 
the  citadel  where  their  master,  the  Earl  of  Hunt- 
ingdon, was  staying  with  Lord  Nottingham,  the 
Captain  of  Calais.  Dinner  was  ready,  and  Savage 
proposed  that  they  should  go  to  table  at  once  with- 
out waiting  for  the  other  partner,  who  was  late  in 
returning  from  the  training-ground. 

"I  don't  think  you  know  Roger  Swynnerton," 
he  said,  "  but  I  can  assure  you  that  you  won't 
mid  his  equal  among  the  squires  here :  the  fact  is, 
that  he  is  too  good  and  too  experienced  to  be  a 
squire  at  all.  He's  as  old  as  Huntingdon  himself, 
and,  man  for  man,  his  equal  in  every  way." 

"How  is  it,"  Marland  asked,  "that  he  has  had 
to  wait  so  long  for  promotion?" 


JOHN  SAVAGE.  23 

"No  money,"  Savage  replied,  in  the  light  tone  of 
a  man  of  the  world;  "he  is  the  son  of  a  younger 
son." 

"I  wonder  the  Earl  took  him." 

"He  is  a  sort  of  relation,  you  see;  his  uncle, 
old  Sir  Thomas  Swynnerton,  married  Huntingdon's 
aunt." 

Marland  laughed.  "I  don't  quite  follow  the  re- 
lationship," he  said;  "but  since  the  Earl  does,  I 
should  have  thought  he  might  provide  for  his 
kinsman." 

"Well,"  replied  Savage,  "he  has  done  what  he 
could;  he  has  suggested  one  or  two  good  matches 
to  him,  but  Swynnerton  is  obstinate,  he  prefers  to 
choose  for  himself." 

John  nodded  approval.  "  By  the  way,"  he  said, 
"  I  thought  I  remembered  the  name :  wasn't  there 
a  lady — a  certain  Maud  Swynnerton — that  you  used 
to  think  a  good  deal  about  ?  " 

Savage  avoided  his  eyes.  "You  need  not  say 
'used,'"  he  replied  in  a  warning  tone. 

John  took  the  hint.  "I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  he 
said  cordially ;  "  tell  me  more." 

"She  is  married,"  replied  Savage,  still  with 
averted  looks. 

John  had  many  ideas  about  love,  but  no  ex- 
perience. He  saw  that  his  friend  was  suffering,  but 
had  no  salve  for  him  beyond  mere  commonplace. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  began,  "a  woman's  choice " 

"There  is   no   woman's   ohoice   in   the  question," 


24  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

Savage  interri^ted ;  "  she  was  married  against  her 
will — carried  off  by  that  old  brute,  Sir  William 
Ipstones,  and  married  by  force  to  his  own  son,  a 
mere  boy,  younger  than  herself." 

"By  force!"  exclaimed  John.  "But  what  were 
her  family  doing  to  allow  it  ? " 

"  She  has  no  family :  she  was  Sir  Robert's  only 
child,  and  he  is  dead.  That  is  the  whole  point  of 
it :  she  is  sole  heiress  of  the  Swynnerton  property." 

"And  what  does  your  friend  Roger  say — he  is 
her  cousin,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"He  says  nothing — and  he  is  quite  right;  there 
is  nothing  to  be  said  for  the  present.  The  marriage 
is  a  hollow  affair,  by  all  accounts ;  young  Ipstones 
is  a  boy  and  a  weakling ;  if  he  lives  to  grow  up 
I  will  call  him  to  a  reckoning  one  way  or  another." 

The  tone  was  resolute  enough,  but  the  plan  seemed 
a  little  vague.  "I  suppose  Swynnerton  is  backing 
you  ?  "  he  said. 

"He  is  not  his  own  master,"  replied  Savage,  "but 
when  the  time  comes  he  will  need  no  persuading. 
You  don't  know  Roger;  he  never  lets  go  when  he 
has  once  set  his  teeth.  Besides,  I  am  helping  him 
in  his  own  business." 

"Is  his  business  of  the  same  kind  as  yours?" 

"Worse — the  lady  is  even  more  unhappy.  You 
must  have  heard  of  the  beautiful  Joan  Hastings, 
who  married  Sir  John  Salusbury?  He  was  per- 
secuted to  death  by  Gloucester  and  his  gang  for 
being   too   loyal,  and   Joan,  instead  of   waiting   for 


JOHN  SAVAGE.  25 

Roger,  has  thrown  herself  away  on  a  Frenchman 
named  Rustine  de  Villeneuve.  Of  course  she  is 
miserable." 

"There  again,"  said  John,  "I  suppose  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done  for  the  present?" 

"For  the  present!  for  the  present!  how  did  we 
come  to  talk  of  these  things  ?  "  cried  Savage,  rising 
abruptly  and  going  over  to  the  window.  John 
looked  after  him  very  sympathetically,  and  with 
a  glow  of  chivalrous  enthusiasm.  If  anything  could 
have  heightened  his  esteem  for  these  two  friends, 
from  whom  he  hoped  so  much,  it  would  have  been 
their  devotion  to  their  distressed  ladies :  his  mind 
was  full  of  knightly  challenges  and  deeds  of  arms, 
in  which  he  himself  was  to  play  a  secondary  but 
very  honourable  part. 

Savage  turned  back  to  him  from  the  window. 
"Look  here,"  he  said,  "we  must  have  no  more  of 
this ;  we  have  a  stiff  day's  work  in  hand  over  here, 
and  we  must  go  through  with  it.  Don't  let  Roger 
know  I  have  told  you  anything,  and  don't  speak 
of  either  affair  again  until  we  are  back  in  England." 

John  held  out  his  hand  and  gave  his  frieud  a 
reassuring  grip. 

"You  can't  forbid  my  thinking,"  he  said;  "I  shall 
always  be  trying  to  devise  a  way  out." 

"The  way  out  —  there  are  only  two  possible," 
muttered  the  other. 

"What  are  they?" 

"Oh!     death    and    divorce,    I    suppose,"    replied 


26  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

Savage  sullenly,  and  as  he  spoke  them  John 
thought  he  had  never  heard  two  uglier  words. 
He  was  relieved  to  hear  a  cheerful  loud  voice  ap- 
proaching. The  door  opened,  and  Roger  Swynner- 
ton  entered  the  room. 


VL 


The  new-comer  gave  Marland  a  friendly  greeting 
and  sat  down  opposite  to  him.  There  was  a  short 
break  in  the  conversation  while  the  servant  placed 
fresh  dishes  upon  the  table,  and  John  spent  the 
time  in  noting  the  marked  contrast  between  his 
two  companions.  Savage  was  of  his  own  age:  he 
was  ruddy,  active,  and  well  knit,  but  rather  small 
made  and  fine  for  a  man  of  arms ;  his  jet  black 
moustache  and  closely-cropped  hair  made  his  face 
somewhat  conventional  in  type,  but  gave  him  what 
he  most  desired,  an  undeniably  military  appearance ; 
his  spirits  were  usually  high,  his  manner  vivacious, 
and  even  jaunty.  Roger,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
a  set  thick  figure  of  much  heavier  weight,  and 
with  no  grace  but  that  of  strength ;  his  features 
were  blunt,  and  seemed  more  so  from  the  entire 
absence  of  hair  from  the  face ;  the  contours  were 
muscular  and  firm,  and  both  forehead  and  jaw  un- 
usually massive.     His  eyes    were  frank  and  kindly 


ROGER  SWYNNERTON.  27 

as  he  spoke  to  John,  and  his  voice  had  a  manly 
matter-of-fact  tone  in  it,  but  there  was  something 
forbidding  in  the  lines  of  determination  about  the 
mouth :  he  was  no  stripling  at  the  beginning  of  his 
career,  but  a  soldier  of  thirty-six,  who  had  long 
been  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  pace  with  his  wealthier 
companions,  and  it  seemed  by  his  appearance  that 
he  had  thrown  aside  in  the  race  a  good  deal  of 
the  poetry  with  which  youth  delights  to  deck  itself 
at  the  start. 

For  some  time  he  paid  undivided  attention  to  his 
dinner,  and  the  meal  ended  without  his  having  con- 
tributed more  than  a  word  here  and  there  to  the 
conversation.  He  then  filled  a  small  cup  of  wine 
for  himself  and  each  of  his  companions,  and  leaned 
back  in  his  chair. 

"We  are  in  strict  training,"  he  explained  as  he 
pushed  the  wine-flagon  farther  away,  "  and  we 
need  to  be.  I  hope  you  have  come  prepared  to 
join  us  f 

John  replied  with  as  little  eagerness  as  possible 
that  he  was  there  for  that  purpose. 

"You  have  run  before?"  asked  Swynnerton.  "I 
don't  mean  in  practice,  of  course." 

"Oh  yes,"  replied  John,  "twice — at  Chester  and 
Stafford." 

Swynnerton  looked  him  over  with  a  cool  scrutiny 
that  was  hard  to  face  without  embarrassment. 

"I  daresay  you  did  pretty  well  there,"  he  said  as 
his  eyes  came  up  to  the  level  of  John's ;  "  but  it  will 


28  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

be  much  hotter  work  here.  What's  your  armour 
like?" 

"Milanese,"  replied  John  in  a  fine  offhand  tone, 
and  then  spoiled  the  effect  by  adding,  "and  brand 
new." 

"  Right !  and  the  horses  ?  You  mustn't  mind  my 
asking  questions." 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  John.  "I  have  brought  two 
chargers :  one  is  a  bit  hard-mouthed,  but  neither  of 
them  ever  refuses." 

Swynnerton  nodded.  "  We'll  look  at  them  to- 
morrow," he  said.  "It  is  the  only  day  you  will  have 
for  galloping,  I'm  afraid.  Thursday  we  are  to 
practise  the  grand  parade,  and  again  on  Saturday. 
Sunday  must  be  a  day  off  for  every  one." 

He  finished  his  wine,  rose  a  little  stiffly,  and 
stretched  himself.  "I  must  be  going,"  he  said  to 
John,  "but  we've  plenty  of  time  before  us."  He 
gave  him  another  nod  of  approval  and  went  noisily 
down  the  stairs. 

"Now,"  said  Savage  when  they  were  left  alone, 
"I'll  show  you  your  quarters,  and  you  shall  show 
me  the  Milanese  harness.' 


KNIGHTS   IN   COUNCIL.  29 


VII. 

The  trials  came  off  successfully  next  day  upon  a 
training-ground  outside  the  walls  of  the  town  ;  but 
they  were  not  so  easily  accomplished  as  Marland 
had  expected.  He  was  quite  unprepared  for  the 
immense  crowd  of  would-be  competitors,  and  spent  a 
somewhat  discontented  morning  waiting  in  vain  for 
his  turn  in  the  enclosure,  which  had  been  measured 
and  fenced  in  to  represent  the  lists.  Though  the 
three  French  champions  were  to  hold  the  field  for 
thirty  days,  and  the  Earl  of  Huntingdon's  party 
was  probably  by  no  means  the  only  one  which  would 
take  up  the  challenge  during  that  time,  there  were 
already  more  than  sixty  knights  and  gentlemen  in 
Calais,  and  on  this,  the  last  day  of  serious  practising, 
they  and  their  grooms,  with  chargers  and  hackneys, 
covered  the  downs  in  every  direction,  and  almost 
choked  the  streets  of  the  town. 

By  Savage's  advice  John  went  back  early  to 
dinner,  and  returned  at  a  time  when  the  ground 
was  comparatively  clear.  Horses  and  armour  both 
proved  to  be  in  satisfactory  condition,  and  he  was 
about  to  make  his  way  home  for  the  day  when  two 
horsemen,  magnificently  mounted,  and  followed  by 
a  dozen  others,  overtook  and  passed  him  at  a 
canter.      One    of    the   party    was    Swynnerton:    he 


30  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 

made   a    peremptory    gesture   as    he   went    by,    and 
pointed  to  the  two  figures  in  front. 

"They  are  going  to  make  up  the  list,"  he  ex- 
plained when  John  drew  level.  "I'll  try  and  find 
the  moment  to  present  you." 

"Who  is  the  other?"  asked  Marland. 

"The  Earl  Marshal:  the  man  nearest  him  is 
Baskerville,  his  cousin  and  chief  squire,  and  the 
next  one  is  S tamer,  a  kinsman  of  Huntingdon's 
just  knighted." 

John's  heart  beat:  he  felt  as  though  he  were  al- 
ready  one   of   a   splendid  fellowship.      Ten  minutes 
afterwards  he  found   himself  following  Swynnerton 
into  the  great  chamber  of  the  castle  where  the  two 
Earls  were  to  hold  their  council  of  war.     They  were 
talking    together   by    the   fire,    and    the   squires   re- 
mained   at    a    respectful    distance    just    inside    the 
door,  Swynnerton  alert  but  with  a  well-trained  air 
of  indifference,  John  with  eyes  fixed  openly  on  the 
great  men.     He  had  seen  earls  before,  but  these  were 
famous  j  ousters  of  almost  royal  rank,  and  he  was 
prepared   to   admire   without   reserve.      It  was   dis- 
appointing   that    at    first    sight    both    appeared    to 
fall  short  of  his  ideal:    Nottingham  had  the  high- 
bred manner  to  be  expected  of  a  Mowbray,  but  his 
face  was  young  and  lacking  in  character ;  Hunting- 
don, on  the  other  hand,  though  of  a  much  stronger 
type,  had  a  coarse  look  about  his  heavy  eyes,  and 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  were  drawn  with  a  per- 
manent  curve   of   unmeasured,    and   even  ferocious, 


KNIGHTS   IN   COUNCIL.  31 

pride.  Still,  he  was  grandly  built,  and  moved  with 
a  grand  air, — a  fine  figure,  John  thought  to  himself, 
but  an  uncongenial  master  to  serve.  Perhaps  he 
hardly  showed  to  advantage  at  this  moment,  for 
he  was  clearly  impatient. 

"  Swynnerton,"  he  said  presently,  "  are  these 
fellows  ever  coming?" 

"It  is  hardly  the  hour  yet,"  replied  the  squire 
with  the  self-possession  of  a  confidential  servant. 
"In  the  meantime,  my  lord,  may  I  present  to 
you  my  friend  John  Marland,  who  has  come  to 
offer  his  service  to  your  lordship?" 

The  Earl  looked  at  John,  but  did  not  acknowledge 
his  bow. 

"Well,  Koger,"  he  said  as  he  turned  his  shoulder 
again,  "  I  suppose  you  know  your  business :  you 
generally  do." 

Nottingham  saw  John's  flaming  oheeks.  "Mar- 
land?"  he  asked  courteously.  "I  think  I  know 
that  name:  where  do  you  come  from,  sir?" 

"Cheshire,  my  lord,"  replied  John,  swallowing 
humiliation  and  gratitude  together. 

"There  is  no  county  more  loyal,"  said  Notting- 
ham gravely,  and  Huntingdon  himself  half  relaxed 
his  frown  and  gave  John  another  look  over  his 
shoulder. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Savage 
appeared,  ushering  in  Lord  Clifford,  Sir  Piers 
Courtenay,  Sir  John  Golafre,  and  several  other 
knights,    all    of    whom    took    their    places    at    the 


32  DREAMS  OP  YOUTH. 

long  table :  at  the  head  of  it  sat  the  two  earls 
side  by  side.  Swynnerton  stood  at  his  master's 
right  shoulder,  and  William  Baskerville  on  the 
Earl  Marshal's  left;  next  to  him  was  a  herald 
with  pen  and  inkhorn  ready,  and  a  list  of  names 
in  his  hand.  No  one  took  the  least  notice  of 
Marland,  who  remained  standing  like  one  petri- 
fied, till  Savage  drew  him  down  to  a  place  by 
his  own  side  on  a  settle  near  the  door,  and 
reassured  him  by  a  wink  and  a  smile. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  conversation,  which  ceased 
suddenly  when  the  Earl  Marshal  rapped  upon  the 
bare  table.  "My  lords,"  he  said,  looking  down 
at  a  memorandum  handed  to  him  by  the  herald, 
"our  paper  of  agenda  is  not  a  long  one;  but 
I  think  you  will  agree  with  me  that  it  is  time 
we  made  out  some  kind  of  order  for  this  contest." 

"And  remember,"  added  Huntingdon  brusquely, 
"that  we  are  here  to  win,  not  to  take  riding 
lessons." 

"My  lord  means,"  said  Nottingham,  "that  we 
have  no  time  to  waste  over  rockets  and  boys' 
games :  we  are  over  here  for  serious  business,  and 
whoever  runs  must  be  prepared  to  run  with  sharp 
points  and  in  war  harness.  I  take  it  that  we 
shall  all  be  of  one  mind  about  that." 

There  was  a  general  murmur  of  assent,  but  Hun- 
tingdon was  not  to  be  explained  away. 

"  Spears,  of  course,"  he  said  scornfully,  "  that 
goes    without     saying;     but    I    meant    that    these 


KNIGHTS    IN   COUNCIL.  33 

Frenchmen  have  defied  us,  and  it  is  for  us  to  see 
that  they  pay  for  it." 

Courtenay  murmured  something  short  to  his 
neighbour.  "My  lord,"  he  said  aloud  to  the  Earl 
Marshal,  "I  have  not  seen  the  terms  of  the  chal- 
lenge lately,  but  I  understand  it  to  be  a  general 
one  to  gentlemen  of  all  nations." 

"That  won't  do,"  said  Huntingdon;  "the  field  is 
pitched  on  our  frontier." 

"I  think,"  said  the  Earl  Marshal,  "it  must 
be  allowed  that  the  match  is  practically  England 
against  France.  I  have  been  asked  to  preside 
to-day  on  that  understanding." 

"  And  I  am  here,"  added  Huntingdon,  "  in 
the  place  of  the  king,   my  brother." 

A  silence  followed,  during  which  Savage  kicked 
John  carefully,  and  caught  his  eye. 

"  Well,  now,"  continued  Huntingdon  in  a  more 
genial  tone,  "  the  Earl  Marshal  will  no  doubt 
settle  the  list  presently  and  arrange  the  order 
of  precedence.  What  I  want  to  hear  discussed 
is  the  plan  of  campaign.  The  challengers  leave 
it  open  to  every  one  to  take  his  choice  between 
the  three  of  them;  but  so  far  as  my  own  com- 
pany is  concerned,  I  must  know  beforehand  whom 
they  intend  to  call  out." 

There  was  some  demur  to  this  autocratic  pro- 
posal, but  it  was  supported  by  the  Earl  Marshal. 

"  We  must  remember,"  he  said,  "  that  though 
we    have   three    good    jousters    to    deal    with,    one 

C 


34  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 

of  them  is  far  more  formidable  than  the  others. 
We  must  pick  our  best  men  to  run  against 
Reynault  de  Roye — men  who  can  face  even  a — 
a  possible  reverse." 

"  Or  else,"  said  Huntingdon,  "  put  out  all  our 
strength  against  Boucicaut  and  Sempy,  and  leave 
only  the  weaklings  to  de  Roye :  in  that  way  we 
shall  probably  make  sure  of  defeating  two  of 
them,  and  give  the  third  nothing  to  boast  about." 

A  moment  of  consternation  followed  this  un- 
knightly  proposal,  but  it  was  quickly  dispelled 
by  the  deep  voice  of  Sir  John  Golafre,  the  biggest 
man  in  the  room.  "  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  if  the 
noble  Earl's  ingenious  suggestion  is  adopted,  may 
I  beg  that  you  will  put  me  down  as  first  weakling  ?  " 

Again  Savage  winked  at  John,  who  drew  a 
breath  of  relief  that  was  almost  a  sob.  Smiles 
of  discreet  approval  were  passing  between  the 
knights  at  the  table,  and  Huntingdon  was  looking 
round  in  vain  for  some  one  to  second  him. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Courtenay  ?  "  he  asked. 
Sir  Piers  was  his  neighbour  in  Devonshire,  and 
the  most  famous  champion  present.  But  he  was 
at  once  too  chivalrous  and  too  diplomatic  to 
fall  into  the  Earl's  snare. 

"  I  say,  my  lord,  that  in  my  experience  no  one 
is  irresistible — there  is  a  deal  of  chance  in  these 
affairs :  you  may  tumble  to  a  Sempy,  and  yet  have 
the  luck  to  bring  down  a  de  Roye.  I  propose  to 
try   them  all  three:    I  should  count  myself  beaten 


TOO   YOUNG.  35 

by   any  man    I    dared   not  meet,   and,   as    you   say, 
we  are  here  to  win." 

After  some  further  discussion,  too  confused  for 
John  to  hear  very  much  of  it,  the  Earl  Marshal 
took  the  sense  of  the  meeting,  and  Lord  Hunting- 
don's proposal  was  lost.  A  compromise  was  then 
agreed  upon ;  the  choice  of  antagonists  was  to  be 
left  open  according  to  the  usual  practice,  but  the 
names  of  nine  first -rate  jousters  were  definitely 
entered  to  run  some  or  all  of  their  courses  against 
de  Roye,  three  of  them  on  each  of  the  first  three 
days.  The  herald  then  read  the  list  aloud :  at  the 
head  of  the  nine  came  the  Earl  Marshal,  followed 
by  seven  knights  and  one  squire — Roger  Swynner- 
ton — but  to  John's  astonishment  the  name  of  the 
Earl  of  Huntingdon  was  not  amongst  them.  He 
looked  round  at  Savage  with  an  indignant  question 
written  on  every  feature  of  his  face,  but  Savage 
was  already  holding  the  door  open  for  the  departing 
council. 


VIII. 

The  Earl  passed  out  last,  and  Swynnerton  with  him: 
the  two  young  squires  were  left  alone  together. 

Savage  closed  the  door  carefully,  and  turned  to 
his  companion  :  he  looked  puzzled,  but  showed  none 
of  the  indignation  that  was  disturbing  Marland. 


36  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

"Strange  folk,  our  masters,"  he  said  with  an 
uncertain  eye  on  John. 

"Your  master,"  replied  John,  "never  mine." 

"I  was  afraid  you  might  say  that;  but  you  must 
not  judge  too  soon.  He  has  some  reason  for  shirk- 
ing de  Roye :  it  can't  be  from  any  softness,  for  he 
is  hard  to  the  core, — his  friends  and  enemies  are 
all  at  one  about  that." 

"  But  he  planned  for  us  to  shirk  too,"  growled  John. 

"  Oh ! "  said  Savage  airily,  "  the  devil  take  his 
plans:  he's  a  bit  too  keen,  that's  all.  I'm  going 
for  de  Roye  myself,  but  you  needn't  tell  him  so." 

John's  eye  kindled.  "Good  man!"  he  said,  "so 
am  I — with  every  spear  I  have." 

They  shook  hands  on  it.  At  that  moment  the 
door  opened,  and  Swynnerton  reappeared  upon  the 
threshold:  to  John's  eye  he  seemed  taller  and  of  a 
more  dignified  carriage  since  the  reading  of  that 
list,  but  the  change  was  apparently  not  visible  to 
Savage,  who  spoke  to  him  in  his  usual  light  tone. 

"Does  he  want  me,  Roger?" 

"No,"  replied  the  other;  "he  has  gone  to  supper 
with  Clifford.  But  what  were  you  two  shaking 
hands  about  ?  " 

"Agreeing  to  do  my  lord's  duty  for  him  and 
try  de  Roye." 

"What  good  do  you  expect  to  get  by  that?" 

Savage  raised  his  chin.  "  We  shall  cover  our- 
selves with  glory,"  he  replied. 

"  With  dust,  you  mean,"  retorted  the  elder  man. 


TOO  YOUNG.  37 

"I  hope,"  John  was  beginning  deferentially, — "I 
hope  you  don't  think " 

Swynnerton  looked  disapprovingly  at  them  both. 
"I  wish  you  were  not  so  young,  you  two,"  he  said, 
and  turned  away  as  if  to  go.  But  before  they  could 
move  he  had  changed  his  mind  and  was  facing  them 
again. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  in  a  frank  but  peremptory 
tone.  "I  am  going  to  tell  you  exactly  what  I  do 
think.  I  don't  approve  of  Huntingdon's  plan,  and 
I  told  him  so  at  once  when  he  first  broached  it :  I 
don't  believe  in  dodges — the  man  who  rides  hardest 
is  the  man  for  me.  It  is  quite  right  for  you  young 
ones  to  take  your  risks,  and  I  like  to  see  you  do 
it;  but  it  is  no  business  of  yours  to  make  rules 
and  judge  your  betters  by  them.  My  lord  is  here 
as  our  captain  :  he  is  to  open  the  game,  and  it 
won't  do  for  him  to  lead  off  with  a  stumble,  or 
any  chance  of  one.  We  should  have  others  going 
after  him,  like  palings  when  a  rot  sets  in,  and  in 
any  case  it  would  certainly  put  heart  into  the 
Frenchmen.  It  is  all  settled :  Huntingdon  will  take 
Boucicaut — Boucicaut's  own  people  think  a  good 
deal  more  of  him  than  you  do — and  Nottingham 
will  follow  with  de  Eoye.  That's  the  order  of  the 
day,  and  if  you  are  decent  fellows  you'll  take  my 
view  of  it  and  do  all  you  can  to  see  that  others 
do  the  same." 

He  looked  them  both  squarely  in  the  face  and 
then  went  out  with  a  heavy  deliberate  step. 


38  DREAMS   OP   YOUTH. 

"Quite  a  long  speech  for  old  Roger,"  said  Savage. 
"He  doesn't  altogether  convince  me,  but  I  suppose 
we  must  do  as  he  says." 

"It  seems  hard  to  expect  us  to  preach  an  opinion 
we  don't  hold,"  said  John,  "  but  if  you  think  it  your 
duty  I  suppose  it  must  be  mine."  He  spoke  ar- 
gumentatively,  but  Savage  saw  nothing  to  argue 
about. 

"  That's  it,"  he  replied  cheerfully ;  "  Roger  backs 
Huntingdon,  I  back  Roger,  and  you  back  me.  You 
serve  my  lord  after  all,  you  see." 

"No  nearer  than  that,  thank  you." 

"Well,  don't  look  so  serious  over  it,"  said  Savage, 
and  carried  him  off  to  supper. 


IX. 


By  Saturday  afternoon  all  preparations  were  com- 
plete: the  grand  entry  had  been  successfully  re- 
hearsed in  full  dress,  and  nothing  now  remained 
to  think  about  except  a  possible  change  in  the 
weather,  of  which  there  was  at  present  no  sign. 
Daylight  was  fading  slowly  in  a  clear  sky  as  John 
sat  in  the  window  of  his  lodging.  He  was  alone, 
for  both  his  friends  were  away  on  duty,  and  after 
several  hours  out  in  the  keen  March  air  the  warmth 
of   the   room  was  beginning   to   take  drowsy  effect 


JOHN   MEETS   HIS   MASTER.  39 

upon  him.  His  eyes  felt  as  though  the  Dusty 
Miller  of  his  childhood  had  been  powdering  them 
with  both  hands,  his  chin  was  sinking  imperceptibly 
towards  his  chest.  He  was  not  yet  asleep ;  but  of 
the  fulness  of  life,  past,  present,  and  future,  nothing 
was  left  to  him  but  a  deep  dim  sense  of  animal 
comfort. 

"  John  !     John  !     O-ho !     John  !  " 

Through  this  twilight  world  the  eager  young  voice 
rang  as  clearly  as  a  trumpet.  John's  mind  awoke, 
but  not  his  body :  he  remained  motionless,  wonder- 
ing where  he  was  and  who  was  calling  him. 

"John?"  The  voice  fell  to  a  question  this  time, 
and  was  certainly  now  in  the  room.  He  opened 
his  eyes  and  saw  the  figure  of  a  boy  of  fifteen,  tall 
and  fair,  standing  with  one  foot  forward  as  if  sud- 
denly checked  in  his  impetuous  entry  :  the  pale  sun- 
set light  met  him  full  face,  and  seemed  to  baffle  his 
eagerness  as  he  peered  at  the  sleeper  beneath  the 
window. 

Marland  rose.  Something  unfamiliar  in  the  move- 
ment evidently  struck  the  visitor,  for  he  turned,  as 
if  for  support,  towards  the  open  door,  where  at  this 
moment  a  second  figure  appeared.  This,  too,  was 
a  boy,  some  three  years  younger  than  the  other: 
he  halted  quietly  on  the  threshold,  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  and  watched  the  scene  without  a  word. 

"I  say,"  exclaimed  the  elder  of  the  two,  "this  is 
some  one  else.  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  turning 
to  Marland j  "I  thought  you  were  John." 


40  DREAMS   OP   YOUTH. 

"I  am  John,"  replied  Marland,  "but  apparently 
not  the  right  one.  If  you  want  John  Savage,  he 
will  be  here  directly.     You  had  better  wait." 

"May  I?  Thanks,"  said  the  boy  in  the  short 
eager  manner  that  seemed  to  match  his  pointed  chin 
and  bright  eyes.  "Come  in,  Edmund,  and  shut 
the  door.  My  brother's  rather  slack,"  he  added 
apologetically,  taking  a  seat  upon  the  table,  from 
which  his  legs  swung  restlessly  as  he  talked.  The 
younger  boy  closed  the  door  and  came  slowly  for- 
ward :  he  was  silent,  but  quite  unembarrassed,  and 
stood  leaning  against  the  table  by  his  brother's  side, 
looking  with  large  brown  eyes  at  John. 

It  was  clear  from  the  manners  of  the  two  that 
they  were  unaccustomed  to  meet  with  rebuffs.  Their 
dress,  too,  indicated  rank ;  but  John  had  no  idea  who 
they  could  be. 

"  Where  are  you  staying  ?  "  he  asked. 

"At  the  Castle.  We've  just  come.  My  uncle's 
there,  you  know." 

John  put  two  and  two  together.  "  Is  your  uncle 
the  Earl  of  Huntingdon?" 

"  That's  right,"  the  boy  nodded.  "  Do  you  know 
him?" 

"  I  do."  Unconsciously  John's  voice  took  an  in- 
dependent tone  as  he  answered  this  question.  The 
change  was  not  lost  on  quick  young  ears. 

"  I  say,"  exclaimed  the  questioner,  *  are  you  a  lord?" 

"  Oh  no ;  only  a  squire." 

"  Who's  your  master  ?  " 


JOHN    MEETS   HIS   MASTER.  41 

"I  haven't  one." 

"I  see.  Well,  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  come 
to  uncle  John." 

"I  am  only  with  him  for  the  jousts,"  replied 
Marland,  longing  to  hear  more  on  this  subject.  But 
the  boy  was  looking  round  the  room,  where  along 
the  wall  the  armour  of  the  occupants  was  carefully 
ranged  on  wooden  stands.  The  three  shields,  newly 
painted  in  silver  and  black,  seemed  to  attract  him 
especially. 

"This  is  Savage's,  with  the  six  lions  rampant," 
he  said.  "I  should  always  know  that,  because  it's 
like  William  Longsword's ;  and  the  big  cross  is 
Roger's;  and  this  is  yours — with  a  bend  and  three 
lions'  heads  of  sable.  I  say,  why  are  they  all  three 
the  same  colours?  Are  you  relations?  Are  you 
all  in  mourning?" 

John  smiled  at  the  crackle  of  questions. 

"In  our  part  of  the  country,"  he  replied,  "there 
are  a  great  many  coats  of  black  and  silver." 

"What  name  does  this  one  belong  to?" 

"Mells  of  Eastwich." 

"Oh!  John  Mells:  that's  rather  a  short  kind  of 
name,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"It  is  not  my  name;  I  am  John  Marland." 

The  boy  was  mystified,  as  John  intended  he 
should  be. 

"But  you  said  Mells,"  he  began  in  a  tone  of 
remonstrance. 

His    brother   here   opened    his    lips  for    the    first 


42  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

time,  and  gave  his  opinion  deliberately,  with  a 
slight  stammer. 

"Tom,  you're  a  b-bat." 

"  Shut  up,  Edmund,  you  stammering  young 
cuckoo,"  said  the  elder  boy;  but  Edmund  went  on 
unperturbed,  his  eyes  fixed  on  John  with  romantic 
admiration — 

"C-can't  you  see  he  killed  Mells  in  a  fight,  and 
took  his  c-coat?" 

"Not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  John;  "but  Mells  is 
dead,  and  I  have  inherited  his  lands." 

Tom  pounced  again.  "Then  you  had  another 
coat  for  Marland?" 

"Yes,"  John  replied.  "It  is  wavy  gules  and 
silver,  with  seven  marlions  of  sable." 

"I  like  that  better,"  said  Tom.  "I  love  scarlet; 
I  shall  have  scarlet  myself  when  I'm  a  knight. 
Shall  you  be  a  knight?" 

"Some  day,  perhaps,"  replied  John,  "if  I  am  not 
killed  first." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  the  boy,  "if  you  like 
fighting  you'd  better  come  with  me ;  I  shall  be 
wanting  a  squire." 

"When  will  that  be?"  asked  John,  concealing 
his  amusement. 

"When  my  father  chooses,"  replied  Tom;  "he 
can  always  get  anything  out  of  uncle  Richard." 

Voices  were  heard  on  the  stairs ;  the  younger  boy 
gave  his  brother  a  warning  look.  "  N-Nicholas ! " 
he  said. 


JOHN   MEETS   HIS   MASTER.  43 

Tom  explained  to  Marland:  "It  is  only  Nicholas 
Love;  he  teaches  us  Latin  and  French,  and  Psalms, 
and  blazonry,  and  the  kings  of  England." 

"And  p-poetry,"  added  Edmund. 

Nicholas  came  in  with  Savage,  whom  he  had 
met  outside.  In  the  brief  moment  of  a  formal 
greeting,  and  beneath  the  fast  falling  twilight,  he 
loomed  but  vaguely  in  John's  eyes;  a  dignified  and 
solid  form  —  unusually  solid  for  a  man  of  thirty, 
and  made  more  bulky  by  the  thick  white  Carthusian 
habit  which  hung  without  a  seam  from  his  chin 
down  to  his  feet. 

"My  young  friends,"  he  said  presently  to  the 
boys,  who  were  busy  with  Savage,  "you  have  my 
leave  to  retire."  He  spoke  with  a  noticeable  turn 
of  dry  humour,  evidently  habitual  with  him. 

The  young  friends  seemed  to  be  in  no  hurry. 
"We  can't  go  yet,"  they  said. 

"I  respect  your  scruples,"  replied  Nicholas,  "but 
you  will  probably  be  less  missed  than  you  suppose. 
I  hope,"  he  added,  turning  to  John,  "that  they 
leave  nothing  owing?" 

"I  cannot  quite  say  that,"  replied  John,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  there  are  my  wages  from  my  Lord  Thomas." 

"He  is  going  to  be  my  body  squire,"  explained 
Tom,  as  his  brother  pushed  him  through  the  door- 
way.    "You  see,  Nicholas,  I  like  him." 

"  Get  on,  g-grab-all ! "   said  Edmund. 


44  UHEAMS   OF   YOUTH. 


X. 


MONDAY,  the  twenty-first  of  March,  dawned  at  last. 
Early  in  the  morning,  though  not  so  early  as  they 
had  intended,  the  Earls  of  Nottingham  and  Hunting- 
don left  the  gates  of  Calais  at  the  head  of  a  large 
and  confused  company  of  horsemen.  A  short  dis- 
tance outside  the  walls  they  halted,  called  over 
the  roll  of  names,  and  marshalled  their  following 
in  two  orderly  columns.  Of  these  the  first  was 
much  the  larger,  and  contained  the  armourers, 
grooms,  and  spare  horses ;  the  second  was  com- 
posed of  the  combatants  and  other  gentlemen  of 
rank,  riding  on  a  narrower  front  to  make  the  more 
imposing  show. 

The  spot  which  had  been  chosen  for  the  en- 
counter was  a  level  extent  of  plain,  about  half-way 
between  Calais  and  the  Abbey  of  St  Inglebert, 
where  the  three  challengers  had  their  headquarters. 
The  ground,  however,  was  as  new  to  them  as  to 
their  opponents,  for  their  training  had  all  been 
done  at  Boulogne,  and  the  lists  had  been  prepared 
independently  by  the  two  judges,  the  Earl  of  North- 
umberland on  one  side  and  on  the  other  the  famous 
Jean  de  la  Personne,  known  invariably  throughout 
France  by  the  name  of  Lancelot. 

When  the  barriers  were  reached,  the  leading 
column  halted  and  parted  to  right  and  left,  making 


ST   INGLEBERT.  45 

a  long  lane  down  which  passed  the  more  splendid 
company,  in  order  to  take  the  place  of  honour  in 
the  grand  entry.  The  Earl  of  Huntingdon  entered 
first,  riding  between  the  Earl  Marshal  and  Lord 
Clifford ;  they  were  preceded  by  six  trumpeters 
sounding  a  challenge,  and  followed  by  six  body- 
squires  in  their  liveries.  After  them  came  the  other 
combatants,  eighteen  knights  in  one  company  and 
eighteen  squires  in  another,  each  man  in  full  armour, 
bearing  his  own  arms  and  colours,  and  with  his 
body  -  servant  in  attendance,  unarmed,  but  even 
more  brilliantly  apparelled.  Last  came  x  troop  of 
distinguished  spectators,  some  twenty  in  number, 
who,  though  unable  for  various  good  reasons  to 
play  the  game  themselves,  found  it  worth  their 
while  to  come  from  England  in  great  state  to 
assist  their  friends  with  advice  and  applause.  Some 
of  them  indeed  were  men  of  vast  experience,  and, 
though  they  never  rode  in  a  match,  had  been  present 
at  every  first-class  meeting  for  twenty  years  past :  all 
were  dressed  with  a  splendour  worthy  of  the  priv- 
ileged enclosure  from  which  they  were  to  view  the 
contest. 

The  whole  cavalcade  made  the  tour  of  the  lists 
from  left  to  right  at  a  walking  pace,  and  John,  as 
he  passed  in  his  turn  through  the  barriers  and  saw 
the  whole  pageant  before  him  at  a  glance,  felt  that 
only  the  voice  of  trumpets  could  express  the  triumph 
that  was  rioting  through  his  heart.  The  pangs  of 
doubt  and  disappointment,  sharp  enough  at  the  time, 


46  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 

which  had  troubled  him  more  than  once  since  he 
heard  the  Westminster  bells,  were  now  forgotten 
utterly,  as  though  they  had  been  but  thorn  pricks; 
to-day  and  here,  as  he  saw  the  procession  winding 
round  the  long  curve  of  the  lists  ahead  of  him,  the 
figures  of  the  two  Earls  seemed  the  embodiment  of 
dignity  and  stately  courage,  and  he  felt  that  he  could 
follow  them  anywhere. 

At    this   moment    the   trumpeters   were   wheeling 
round   to   approach    the    spectators'  balcony  on  the 
far   side :    it  was    hung   with    blue    and    gold    cloth, 
and    surmounted  by   the   lilies    of   France,   but  was 
at  present  empty.     John's  eyes  instinctively  turned 
from    this    to    the    left-hand    side    of    the    ground, 
which  it  faced,   and  he  found  that   he  was  on  the 
point   of  passing    before   the   quarters    of   the   chal- 
lengers.     Their  three  pavilions  were  all  of  crimson, 
but   each   was   distinguished    by   the   device    of   its 
owner,    embroidered   in   large    letters    on    a    golden 
scroll.     That  of  Boucicaut,  which  was  close  to  him, 
bore  the  words  "  Ce  que  vous  vouldrez" — a   motto 
which  the  young  champion  had  but  newly  chosen, 
but  which  he  ever  afterwards  retained  in  memory 
of  St  Inglebert. 

After  passing  the  pavilions,  and  the  crowd  of  gaily 
dressed  French  gentlemen  drawn  up  between  them, 
John  found  himself  abreast  of  a  huge  elm -tree, 
which  had  been  purposely  included  in  the  circuit 
of  the  high  outer  fence.  On  the  wide- spreading 
branches   near   the   ground    were   hung   the   shields 


ST  INGLEBERT.  47 

of  the  three  challengers :  of  these  there  were  six, 
one  set  painted  with  their  owners'  arms  as  in 
ordinary  warfare,  the  other  set  also  in  the  owners' 
different  colours,  but  all  three  with  the  same  im- 
press— three  hearts,  two  above  and  one  below, — 
a  bearing  specially  devised  for  this  occasion.  Be- 
side each  shield  five  spears  were  ranged :  those  by 
the  shields  of  war  had  sharp  steel  points,  those  by 
the  shields  of  peace  were  tipped  with  rockets  or 
blunt  heads,  shaped  like  coronets.  At  the  end  of 
the  nearest  branch  hung  a  golden  horn,  and  as 
John  marked  this  unusual  item  of  the  ceremonial 
furniture  he  felt  that  it  added  the  last  touch  of 
romance  to  the  most  chivalrous  contest  of  the  age. 

By  this  time  the  leaders  had  completed  their 
circuit,  and  were  taking  possession  of  the  enclosure 
allotted  to  their  party,  near  the  gate  by  which  they 
had  entered :  the  servants  were  crowding  into  the 
space  which  the  procession  had  just  traversed, 
between  the  inner  rail  and  the  high  outer  fence. 
From  the  centre  of  the  balcony  a  herald  cried  aloud 
the  terms  of  the  challenge  to  all  comers,  and  ended 
by  declaring  the  lists  open  in  the  name  of  God  and 
St  Denis. 

Before  the  last  note  of  the  trumpet  had  died 
away  the  English  ranks  opened,  and  the  Earl  of 
Huntingdon  was  seen  advancing  towards  the  pav- 
ilions, followed  by  two  squires  bearing  his  shield  and 
helm.  He  rode  with  a  slow,  majestic  pace,  and  to 
the  onlookers  it  seemed  long  before  he  reached  the 


48  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

great  tree  and  took  the  horn  in  his  mailed  right 
hand.  A  loud  and  fierce  blast  followed,  caught  up 
and  redoubled  by  a  tremendous  cheer  from  every 
Englishman  on  the  ground.  The  French  cheered  in 
return,  and  the  noise  continued  for  some  minutes 
while  the  Earl's  helm  was  being  buckled  on  by  his 
attendant  squires.  He  then  with  a  light  rod  touched 
the  war  shield  of  Boucicaut,  and  a  fresh  burst  of 
cheering  drowned  the  voice  of  the  herald  who  was 
crying  to  summon  that  champion  forth  from  his 
pavilion. 

The  call  was  quickly  passed  on,  and  Boucicaut 
appeared  in  full  armour  and  with  helm  already 
fastened.  He  took  his  place  at  the  far  end  of  the 
lists,  and  John,  from  where  he  sat  in  his  saddle 
directly  behind  Huntingdon,  fixed  his  eyes  like  one 
fascinated  upon  the  red  eagle  on  the  young  French- 
man's silver  shield.  With  the  first  note  of  the 
trumpet  he  saw  it  begin  to  move  :  nearer  and  nearer 
it  came,  the  long  bright  lance  gleaming  above  it ; 
a  sudden  shock,  a  noise  of  splintering  wood,  and 
the  two  riders  had  passed  one  another,  and  were 
trying  to  rein  in  their  excited  chargers.  The  red 
eagle  came  on  within  a  few  yards  of  John,  turned 
gracefully,  and  went  back  up  the  ground :  at  the 
far  end  Huntingdon  also  was  wheeling,  while  his 
squires  were  examining  the  fragments  of  his  shield, 
which  had  been  completely  pierced  and  broken  by 
his  opponent's  spear. 

It    occurred    to    John    that    it    was    not    a    very 


ST  INGLEBERT.  49 

fortunate  omen  for  the  lions  of  England  to  be  thus 
defaced  at  the  first  onset,  but  he  joined  in  the  cheer 
which  greeted  the  announcement  that  the  Earl  him- 
self was  uninjured,  the  spear  having  glanced  harm- 
lessly over  his  arm.  Again  he  watched  the  red 
eagle,  this  time  without  such  tense  anxiety :  the 
course  was  uneventful,  and  his  hopes  rose.  But  at 
the  third  attack  both  the  chargers  refused  to  cope, 
and  a  murmur  of  disappointment  went  round. 

The  Earl  came  to  his  place,  and  made  ready  to 
start  again.  He  was  hot  and  angry,  and  could  be 
heard  swearing  under  his  impassive  mask  of  iron. 
His  anger  turned  to  fury  when  he  saw  that  Boucicaut 
was  returning  to  his  pavilion :  no  reason  was  offered 
for  this  withdrawal,  but  none  was  really  needed,  for 
the  judges  had  announced  that  no  challenger  was 
under  obligation  to  run  more  than  three  courses 
against  any  one  opponent.  Huntingdon,  however, 
was  beside  himself  with  rage,  and  so  far  lost  his 
head  as  to  roar  out  a  boastful  and  violent  order  to 
one  of  his  squires  to  strike  the  shield  of  Sempy,  the 
least  formidable  of  the  French  party. 

The  French,  however,— if  they  heard  it,— had  the 
good  taste  to  ignore  this  breach  of  manners,  and 
Sempy  responded  without  delay.  The  first  course 
was  a  failure,  the  horses  crossing  before  they  met: 
in  the  confused  shook  which  followed,  Huntingdon 
was  unhelmed,  more  by  accident  than  design.  When 
he  returned  to  his  place  to  be  re-armed  Swynnerton 
moved  forward  as  if  to  see  that  the  new  buckle  was 

D 


50  DREAMS   OF  TOFTH. 

well  secured,  and  John  guessed  that  he  had  seized 
the  opportunity  to  offer  a  word  of  advice  to  his 
infuriated  lord.  The  Earl  seemed  mollified  by  his 
suggestions,  which  were  probably  administered  in  the 
disguise  of  admiration  and  encouragement :  he  made 
ready  with  more  self-control,  and  levelled  his  spear 
deliberately  for  the  body-stroke,  a  difficult  form  of 
attack  but  one  more  likely  to  be  decisive.  Sempy 
adopted  the  same  tactics,  and  the  result  was  a  fine 
encounter :  each  of  the  combatants  drove  his  lance 
fair  and  square  into  the  centre  of  his  opponent's 
shield,  and  both  men  and  horses  reeled  with  the 
shock, — the  riders  barely  saved  themselves  by  sheer 
leg-grip  from  rolling  over. 

After  a  short  breathing-space  the  Earl  again  pre- 
sented himself.  The  judges  had  already  agreed  that 
though  five  courses  was  the  number  mentioned  in 
the  proclamation,  six  in  all  should  be  allowed  to 
those  who  wished  to  run  against  more  than  one 
of  the  challengers.  Sempy  accordingly  took  his 
station  once  more.  This  time  both  men  chose  the 
high  point,  and  each  struck  the  other  on  the  helm 
with  sufficient  force  to  make  the  sparks  fly  out; 
but  the  Earl's  spear  held  the  better  of  the  two, 
and  to  the  delight  of  his  party  he  unhelmed  his 
opponent  very  smartly. 

This  was  the  first  clear  point  scored  by  either  side, 
and  the  English  partisans  showed  a  natural  but  dis- 
proportionate exultation.  Huntingdon  himself  was 
so  elated   that  he  sent   Swynnerton  with   a  herald 


ST  INGLEBERT.  51 

and  a  trumpeter  to  challenge  Sempy,  for  the  love 
of  his  lady,  to  run  one  more  course.  This,  how- 
ever, was  disallowed  by  the  judges,  and  the  Earl 
was  unhelmed  by  his  squires,  both  parties  applaud- 
ing him  so  generously  that  he  had  no  further  tempta- 
tion to  ill-humour. 

His  place  was  taken  by  the  Earl  Marshal,  who 
sent  to  touch  the  war  shield  of  Reynault  de  Roye. 
It  was  already  known  to  every  one  on  the  ground 
that  he  would  do  so,  but  the  moment  was  an 
exciting  one,  for  the  French  champion  had  a  great 
reputation,  and  there  were  few  on  the  English 
side  who  had  ever  seen  him  in  action.  It  was 
the  more  disappointing  that  the  first  course  en- 
tirely failed,  through  the  shying  of  both  horses. 
At  the  second  attempt  Mowbray  had  a  slight  ad- 
vantage, for  he  struck  his  enemy  fair  and  broke 
his  spear.  But  the  third  course  went  against  him, 
for  though  both  helms  were  struck,  and  apparently 
with  equal  certainty,  de  Roye  passed  on  and  made 
his  turn,  while  the  Englishman  was  unhelmed  and 
dazed  by  the  blow. 

Lord  Clifford,  who  followed  him,  was  greeted 
warmly  by  the  French,  for  they  had  heard  that 
he  was  a  cousin  of  their  old  enemy,  the  famous 
Chandos.  He  was  successful  in  unhelming  Boucicaut 
at  the  second  attempt,  but  in  his  next  course 
suffered  the  same  fate  at  the  hands  of  Sempy. 

Boucicaut  was  somewhat  shaken  by  Clifford's 
stroke,    but    recovered    in    time    to    take    a    signal 


52  DREAMS   OP  YOUTH. 

revenge  on  the  next  English  champion.  This  was 
Sir  Henry  Beaumont,  who  had  the  misfortune  to 
cross  ahead  of  his  opponent,  and  so  close  to  him 
that  Boucicaut  was  able  by  a  brilliant  shot  to 
catch  him  full  as  he  passed  and  drive  him  head- 
long over  the  crupper.  An  overthrow  such  as 
this  counted  more  than  double  the  points  given 
for  unhelming  an  adversary.  The  first  decisive 
success  had  fallen  to  the  French,  and  the  English 
party  was  considerably  sobered  by  it.  But  there 
was  one  at  least  among  them  whose  spirit  nothing 
could  affect.  Sir  Piers  Courtenay  had  seen  and 
felt  too  many  hard  knocks  in  England,  France, 
and  Spain  to  care  overmuch  whether  it  was  upon 
his  own  head  or  his  opponent's  that  the  next  would 
fall.  His  young  squire  Dennis  cantered  gaily  up  to 
the  elm-tree,  and  with  the  breezy  confidence  of  a 
true  Devonian  struck  the  war  shield  of  all  three 
challengers  in  succession. 

This  all-round  defiance  seemed  to  astonish  the 
French  as  much  as  it  delighted  the  English  party, 
and  Sir  Piers  was  invited  to  explain  what  mean- 
ing he  wished  to  be  put  upon  his  challenge.  He 
replied  that  if  the  judges  allowed  three  courses 
against  each  of  two  antagonists,  they  might  as 
well  allow  two  courses  against  each  of  three ;  and 
they  had  in  faot  proclaimed  the  extra  allowance 
to  any  one  wishing  to  run  against  "more  than 
one"  opponent.  The  claim  was  held  to  be  as 
reasonable  as  it  was  spirited,  and  all  three  of  the 


ST   INGLEBERT.  53 

French  champions  appeared  at  the  entrance  of  their 
pavilions  accordingly. 

The  first  match  was   against  de   Roye,   who    dis- 
helmed  his  man  at  the  second  attempt.     Courtenay, 
however,  took   this   misfortune   with  supreme  good- 
humour,    and    as    he    cantered    off    with    his    helm 
dangling  down  his  back,  he  called  out   to   his  vic- 
torious enemy,  who  was  also  an  old  friend,  "Mind 
yourself,  Reynault;  there  are  bigger  men  coming!" 
He  took  Sempy  next,  and  had  an  ample  revenge : 
the  Frenchman  missed,  and  though  his  spear  took 
Courtenay  crossways  on  the  breast  it  did  not  spoil 
his   stroke;    Sempy's   helm   flew    off   like   a   Turk's 
head  from  a  post.      The  last  match  was   the  most 
even  of  the  three :    once  the  combatants  staggered 
each    other    with    a    full    point   in   the   shield,   and 
in    the   second    course    they    unhelmed    each    other 
precisely  at  the  same  moment. 

Sir  Piers  then  begged  hard  for  one  more  chance, 
against  any  one  of  the  three  challengers;  but  he 
was  refused,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  made  way 
for  the  next  comer.  This  was  Sir  John  Golafre, 
one  of  the  "bigger  men"  of  whom  Courtenay  had 
spoken,  and  the  same  who  had  desired  to  be  entered 
as  "first  weakling."  The  joke  was  passed  round 
again  as  he  rode  out,  a  gigantic  figure  topped 
with  a  bush  of  red,  white,  and  black  plumes,  and 
the  hopes  of  all  his  party  beat  high,  for  he  was 
to  run  a  single  match  against  the  great  de  Roye. 
The  first  oourse  showed  the  determination  of  the 


54  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

combatants,  for  they  rode  at  a  pace  that  no  one 
had  yet  approached ;  but  it  was  indecisive,  each 
striking  the  other  fair  on  the  helm  without  scor- 
ing. At  the  second  attempt  the  horses  were  both 
out  of  hand,  and  refused  to  cope :  the  sight  of 
their  wild  swerve  only  raised  the  excitement  of  the 
spectators  to  a  still  higher  pitch.  In  the  third 
course  both  men  chose  the  body -stroke,  and  the 
shock  was  tremendous;  both  spears  splintered  to 
the  truncheon,  and  it  seemed  a  miracle  that  de 
Roye  could  have  borne  up  against  the  weight  of 
such  an  avalanche  of  steel.  The  fourth  course  was 
taken  so  fast  that  both  spears  missed ;  in  the  fifth 
they  came  together  still  faster,  amid  the  wildest 
excitement,  and  John's  heart  bounded  as  if  he  had 
been  struck  himself,  when  he  saw  the  two  helmless 
champions  parting  in  their  padded  coifs.  The  best 
match  of  the  day  was  over,  and  it  had  ended  in 
a  draw. 

There  remained  only  two  English  knights  to 
take  their  turn  that  afternoon,  and  neither  of 
these  was  strong  enough  to  try  de  Roye:  one 
— Sir  John  Kussel  —  ran  level  with  Sempy  ;  the 
other  provided  a  surprise,  for  he  defeated  Boucicaut, 
unhelming  him  so  sharply  as  to  draw  blood,  and 
then  fell  from  his  saddle  before  the  less  formidable 
Sempy. 

The  day  was  over,  and  the  points  were  twenty- 
four  to  fifteen  against  England  :  at  least  so  said 
John's    friends,    Tom    and    Edmund,    and    they    had 


REYNAULT  DE   ROYE.  55 

kept  the  score  minutely.  John  only  knew  when 
he  reached  his  lodging  that  he  was  as  tired  as 
he  had  ever  been  in  his  life :  and  yet  he  had  been 
sitting  still  for  more  than  five  hours  out  of  seven. 


XL 


John  found  the  second  day  much  less  fatiguing: 
as  he  had  no  grand  entry  to  make  and  no  chance 
of  jousting  till  the  Thursday,  he  was  able  to  dis- 
card his  armour  and  attend  in  comfort  upon  a 
hack.  He  also  got  a  far  more  ample  meal,  in  the 
big  dining-tent  which  Boucicaut  had  erected  behind 
the  pavilions  for  the  use  of  all  comers :  and  now 
that  he  had  to  some  extent  worked  off  the  feverish 
excitement  which  had  at  first  kept  him  on  the 
stretch,  he  enjoyed  himself  a  good  deal,  and  would 
have  done  so  still  more  if  the  game  had  gone  less 
steadily  against  his  own  side. 

It  was  evident  almost  from  the  beginning  that 
the  disadvantage,  which  looked  so  great  at  first 
sight,  of  having  to  meet  a  continual  succession  of 
fresh  opponents,  counted  in  practice  for  very  little 
when  weighed  against  the  superior  training  and 
experience  of  the  French  champions.  They  rode 
as  well  as  if  they  had  been  resting  for  a  week 
past;   and  whereas  on   the  Monday  Boucicaut   had 


56  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

been  worsted  by  Clifford  and  Shirburne,  and  Sempy 
by  Courtenay  and  Huntingdon,  on  Tuesday  only 
four  out  of  eleven  Englishmen  succeeded  in  even 
making  a  drawn  match. 

The  interest  of  the  meeting  centred  more  and 
more  in  de  Roye,  who  was  to  -  day  summoned  only 
three  times,  while  his  two  companions  had  each  to 
meet  four  antagonists.  Sir  William  Stamer,  the 
new-made  knight,  showed  more  courage  than  pru- 
dence in  attempting  him;  but  he  was  ambitious 
of  proving  to  his  kinsman,  the  Earl  of  Hunting- 
don, that  his  honours  were  deserved.  In  the  first 
course  he  lost  his  spear ;  in  the  second  he  made  a 
bad  swerve,  and  was  all  but  thrown  in  spite  of  it. 
The  third  was  a  good  encounter,  but  at  the  fourth 
he  was  dishelmed  and  again  driven  back  almost 
to  the  ground. 

Sir  Godfrey  Seeker,  a  Kentish  knight,  fared  even 
worse,  though  he  was  a  more  experienced  j ouster. 
In  his  third  course  he  actually  succeeded  in  dis- 
helmiug  de  Roye,  but  the  Frenchman,  with  the 
determination  which  seemed  never  to  fail  him  for 
a  moment,  drove  on  through  Seeker's  targe  and 
through  his  armour  as  well;  the  spear  broke  half- 
way up,  and  the  end  remained  fixed  in  the  shield 
and  in  the  knight's  forearm.  With  such  a  wound 
the  Englishman  did  well  to  make  his  turn  and 
come  to  his  place  in  good  style;  but  the  match 
was  drawn,  and  there  was  no  more  running  for  him. 

The  last  of  his  side  to-day  was  Swynnerton,  and 


REYNAULT   DE   ROYE.  57 

though  he  certainly  was  not  de  Roye's  equal  in 
skill,  his  great  strength  and  weight  gave  his 
friends  some  hope  of  a  success.  He  came  through 
his  first  course  well,  in  spite  of  a  shield  -  stroke 
that  almost  unseated  him  and  would  have  broken 
the  back  of  a  weaker  man;  at  the  second  en- 
counter both  riders  took  the  high  point,  and  the 
spears  flashed  finely ;  but  the  third  was  fatal, — the 
Frenchman  unhelmed  Roger  with  a  stroke  that 
seemed  to  stun  both  man  and  horse. 

The  day  was  over,  and  once  more  the  points  were 
against  England.  "  Twenty  -  six  to  eight !  "  said 
the  boys  ruefully,  as  they  rode  home  among  the 
squires. 

"  Wait  until  to  -  morrow  !  "  replied  Savage  with 
his  usual  gaiety :  to-morrow  was  his  day,  and  he 
was  still  sanguine. 

Edmund  thought  the  matter  was  being  treated 
flippantly,  and  remonstrated.  "  N  -  no,  but  I  say, 
why  do  they  beat  us  like  this  ?  we  always  win  the 
b-battles,  don't  we?" 

"No,  my  friend,"  growled  Swynnerton,  whose 
head  was  aching;  "the  archers  win  them  for  us." 

"  But  they're  not  gentlemen,"  said  Tom. 

"Good  God!"  said  Swynnerton  with  an  angry 
snort,  "  when  a  man  wins,  who  cares  what  he  is  ?  " 


58  DREAMS   OP  YOUTH. 


XII. 

Wednesday  was  warm  and  fine,  and  the  com- 
batants, as  they  came  away  from  mass  in  the  new 
English  church,  talked  hopefully  once  more.  The 
three  knights  on  Huntingdon's  list  who  still  re- 
mained available  against  de  Roye  were  all  first- 
rate  men,  and  there  were  one  or  two  squires  to 
run  who  had  promised  well,  though  it  was  admitted 
that  none  of  them  could  be  expected  to  fly  at  such 
high  game.  Savage,  however,  knew  better  than 
that,  and  it  was  hardly  his  fault  if  the  rest  of 
the  world  did  not  know  it  too,  for  he  talked  and 
laughed  in  his  most  excitable  manner,  unrepressed 
even  by  Swynnerton's  downright  rebukes. 

"Because  you've  a  black  eye  yourself,  Roger," 
he  replied,  "  you  see  every  one  else  all  over  bruises." 

"Well,"  retorted  the  damaged  champion,  "there 
are  plenty  more  where  I  got  mine." 

The  good- humour  in  his  growl  touched  Savage. 
"I  know,"  he  said, — "I  know  I'm  not  fit  to  fasten 
your  galoshes,  Roger,  but  hope  must  count  for 
something,  and  I'd  give  my  whole  bag  of  bones 
to  see  how  de  Roye  looks  t'other  way  up." 

"So  would  I,"  added  John  with  equal  fervour. 

Swynnerton  laughed  his  loud  short  laugh. 
"T'other  way  up!  So  you  will,"  he  said,  "one  or 
both  of  you  !  " 


COCKS   OP  THE    GAME.  59 

John  repudiated  this  dismal  prophecy  for  him- 
self, but  privately  he  felt  less  confident  about  his 
friend.  Savage  was  certainly  fearless,  but  he  had 
no  great  experience,  and  was  not  yet  come  to  his 
full  weight.  Moreover,  he  was  first  on  the  order 
of  running  for  the  day,  and  would  have  to  face  de 
Roye  at  his  freshest,  if  he  persisted  in  trying  him 
after  all. 

Two  hours  later  these  misgivings  were  all  falsi- 
fied. Savage  did  not  achieve  the  miracle  he  hoped 
for,  but  he  ran  a  very  spirited  match  with  his 
great  antagonist,  and  came  off  upon  equal  terms 
with  loud  applause. 

He  had  noted  the  Frenchman's  methods,  his  great 
pace,  his  more  frequent  choice  of  the  shield-stroke, 
and  his  trick  of  bending  suddenly  forward  at  the 
moment  of  the  cope :  all  these  he  adopted  in  his 
first  course,  and  brought  off  an  encounter  which 
was  voted  second  to  none  that  had  yet  been  seen. 
Both  men  struck  fair,  and  at  such  a  pace  both 
must  have  been  thrown  if  their  weapons  had  not 
given  way.  As  it  was,  the  spears  splintered  right 
up  to  their  hands,  and  each  left  his  point  firmly 
embedded  in  his  opponent's  shield:  the  shock  was 
so  loud  that  every  one  on  the  ground  feared  lest 
one  or  both  had  been  seriously  injured,  and  Savage's 
friends,  when  he  came  back  to  his  place,  tried  hard 
to  persuade  him  to  be  content  with  the  danger  and 
the  glory  of  one  such  encounter. 

"Not    at    all,"    he    replied    airily;    "I    did    not 


60  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

face    a    Channel     crossing    to    run    only    a    single 


course." 


The  words  were  repeated  to  de  Roye,  who  had 
sent  to  hear  his  decision :  he  declared  the  answer 
most  reasonable,  and  two  more  courses  were  ar- 
ranged. Of  these  the  first  was  a  failure,  for  the 
horses  orossed;  but  the  final  one  was  again  aston- 
ishingly good,  both  men  being  unhelmed  in  the  best 
style. 

The  two  Holland  boys,  by  John's  side,  were 
jumping  with  excitement.  "  I  would  rather  be 
Savage  than  any  one  on  the  ground,  wouldn't 
you?"  Tom  asked. 

John  smiled  at  the  young  enthusiast.  "Not  I," 
he  replied;  "what's  past  is  past." 

Tom  looked  quickly  at  him  and  seized  the  point. 
"If  you  do  as  well  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "I  shall 
think  as  well  of  you." 

"  Weathercock ! "  remarked  Edmund  in  his  breath- 
less way :  he  was  hugging  Savage's  damaged  shield, 
with  the  spear-head  still  in  the  centre  of  it. 

Savage  himself  now  joined  them  on  his  hackney, 
and  the  game  went  on. 

Baskerville  lost  to  Boucicaut ;  Stapleton  drew 
with  Sempy ;  Scott  tried  the  same  champion  and 
unhelmed  him  at  the  second  course,  but  was  him- 
self rolled  headlong  at  the  third.  These  were  but 
chickens,  and  expectation  rose  higher  when  a  full- 
fledged  cook  of  the  game  rode  out  to  meet  de  Roye. 
This  was   Sir  John  Arundel,  a  well-known  dancing 


COCKS    OF   THE    GAME.  61 

man  and  always  good  for  a  song,  but  his  popularity 
did  not  rest  only  upon  his  social  gifts,  for  he  rode 
straight  and  hard. 

Of  his  five  courses  four  were  brilliant,  and  he 
parted  on  even  terms. 

Two  more  squires  fell  an  easy  prey  to  Boucicaut, 
and  then  came  the  turn  of  Sir  John  Clinton,  an 
ambitious  young  knight  in  fine  armour :  he  bore  the 
blue  chief  and  silver  mullets  of  his  famous  house, 
but  to  distinguish  his  shield  from  that  of  his  kins- 
man Sir  Nicholas,  the  white  field  of  it  was  fretted 
with  azure.  His  reputation  was  good,  and  de  Roye 
greeted  his  summons  with  a  courteous  word  of 
welcome.  The  match  was  a  splendid  one,  but  the 
five  courses  ended  in  a  draw,  each  having  at  last 
succeeded  in  dishelming  the  other. 

And  now,  after  Sempy  had  defeated  young  Roger 
Low,  the  supreme  moment  of  the  day  was  reached. 
The  last  combatant  officially  told  off  to  meet  de 
Roye  was  moving  forward  amid  loud  cheers :  d'Am- 
brecicourt  his  father  and  grandfather  had  been  called 
in  their  day,  for  they  belonged  to  Hainault ;  but 
Sir  John  was  English  born  and  bred,  by  the  name 
of  Dabridgecourt,  and  differenced  the  red  bars  on 
their  ermine  shield  with  escallop  shells  of  silver. 
He  wore  a  coronet  on  his  helm  with  towering 
plumes,  like  a  prince;  and  there  was  something 
princely  too  in  the  simplicity  with  which  he  rode 
to  the  elm-tree  himself  to  deliver  his  summons,  as 
if  he  had  been  no  more  than  a  squire. 


62  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 

The  first  course  of  this  match  was  run  in  breath- 
less silence :  fire  flashed  from  both  helms  as  the 
spears  glanced  off  them,  and  a  low  murmur  went 
round  the  ground,  for  the  pace  was  terrific.  The 
second  course  was  even  faster,  and  the  spears  were 
splintered  like  glass.  The  spectators  drew  in  their 
breath  sharply,  and  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
kind  of  awe :  the  atmosphere  seemed  to  have  sud- 
denly changed,  and  the  game  to  be  greater  than 
they  had  known ;  they  felt  that  the  men  before 
them  feared  neither  pain  nor  death. 

A  third  time  the  thunder  and  the  crash  came: 
it  seemed  to  John  that  he  himself  was  stunned; 
but  a  moment  afterwards  he  recognised  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice  as  if  it  had  been  a  stranger's, 
shouting  madly  with  the  rest.  Dabridgecourt  was 
turning  at  the  far  end  of  the  lists,  and  in  the 
middle,  among  the  wreckage  of  the  spears,  de 
Roye  sat  dishelmed  and  beaten  upon  his  motionless 
charger. 


XIII. 

The  boys  overtook  John  on  his  way  to  the  field 
next  day.  They  were  brimful  of  his  secret  and 
bubbling  with  excitement.  Tom  gave  advice  with 
an  air  of  proprietorship,  to  which  Edmund  listened 
with  undisguised  impatience. 


the  FoimmsrE  of  john  mainland.  63 

"St-tiffen  your  wrist,  and  your  b-back, — st-tiffen 
everything  except  your  n-nose,"  was  his  parody  of 
his  brother. 

"  Children  don't  understand  these  things,"  retorted 
Tom ;  "  my  uncle  and  I  have  been  discussing  them 
this  morning." 

John  pricked  up  his  ears:  "Discussing  what?" 

"Well,  he  said  there  would  be  no  dogs  for  the  big 
bear  to-day,  and  I  said  I  knew  of  one, — of  course  I 
didn't  say  the  name." 

"Anything  more?"  asked  John. 

"  Yes ;  he  said  he  was  sorry  for  the  dog,  because 
the  bear  had  a  sore  head." 

John  laughed,  not  altogether  comfortably ;  but  he 
reflected  that  after  all  even  de  Roye  could  not  do 
better  than  his  best,  and  he  had  probably  been  doing 
that  already. 

There  he  was  wrong,  as  he  soon  discovered. 

The  day  began  tamely  with  a  couple  of  drawn 
matches.  Then  a  third  Englishman  rode  out,  but 
he  too  chose  Boucicaut,  and  was  beaten.  He  was 
followed  by  Herr  Hansse,  a  Bohemian  knight  in 
the  Queen's  service:  a  big  man  this  one,  but  he 
too  contented  himself  with  summoning  Boucicaut. 
It  seemed  evident  that  de  Roye's  work  was  over, 
now  that  the  official  list  of  his  opponents  was 
exhausted,  and  both  sides  openly  regretted  it. 

But  the  day  was  not  destined  to  end  as  tamely 
as  it  had  begun.  In  his  first  course  the  Bohemian 
rode   right  into   his   opponent    and   struck   at   him 


64  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 

with  his  spear  after    the    collision   was   seen   to   be 
unavoidable. 

In  the  opinion  of  the  judges  the  action  was 
deliberate  from  beginning  to  end,  and  they  decided 
that  Herr  Hansse  had  forfeited  armour  and  horse, 
according  to  the  rules. 

This  incident  caused  a  long  interruption  of  the 
sport,  for  though  Boucicaut  at  once  refused  to  take 
advantage  of  the  forfeiture,  he  was  opposed  by  the 
majority  of  his  own  side.  They  urged,  with  much 
good  sense,  that  the  utmost  severity  should  be 
enforced  against  an  unfair  trick,  which  might  easily 
have  caused  the  entire  defeat  of  the  challengers  by 
putting  one  of  their  number  out  of  action  for  the 
rest  of  the  thirty  days.  The  English,  too,  were 
divided :  many  were  anxious  to  save  the  credit  of 
one  who,  though  a  foreigner,  was  a  member  of 
their  team ;  but  others  feared  still  more  lest  the 
Bohemian,  if  pardoned,  might  doubly  embarrass 
them  by  snatching  a  victory  after  all. 

This  last  argument  came  to  the  ears  of  the 
French  and  touched  their  pride.  They  agreed  at 
once  to  renounce  the  forfeit  and  let  the  Bohemian 
do  his  worst.  Herr  Hansse,  in  his  turn,  was  stung 
by  this,  and  when  asked  with  whom  he  wished 
to  continue  the  contest,  he  defiantly  named  de 
Roye. 

Such  unexpected  good  fortune  restored  the  interest 
of  the  combat  at  once,  and  when  the  Bohemian  was 
re-armed,  and  the  two  champions  took  their  places, 


THE    FORTUNE    OF   JOHN   MARL  AND.  65 

the   silence  was  as  intense  and  breathless  as  it  had 
been  the  day  before. 

The  suspense  was  soon  over :  de  Roye  was  in  no 
mood  to  strike  twice.  The  big  Bohemian  seemed  to 
be  but  a  straw  before  him  as  he  swept  him  from 
the  saddle,  bent  him  across,  and  tossed  him  broken 
from  his  path. 

"  Dead,  by  God  !  "  said  Huntingdon.  No  one  else 
spoke  a  word :  the  sight  was  too  much  like  an 
execution. 

Fortunately  Herr  Hansse  proved  to  be  not  dead, 
nor  even  seriously  injured,  though  he  was  completely 
disabled.  A  buzz  of  eager  talk  broke  out,  every 
detail  of  the  stroke  was  discussed,  and  no  one  paid 
any  attention  to  the  next  match,  in  which  Sempy 
defeated  a  squire  of  average  merit. 

"John  Marland,  do  you  run?"  said  the  quiet 
businesslike  voice  of  a  herald. 

John  replied  with  icy  calm,  and,  indeed,  he  felt 
as  if  he  were  all  turned  to  ice  except  his  heart, 
which  was  beating  like  a  hammer  upon  a  red-hot 
anvil.  He  made  a  little  jest  as  Savage  buckled  his 
helmet,  and  was  sure  his  voice  had  quavered :  when 
the  spear  was  put  into  his  hand  he  shook  it  in  correct 
professional  style,  and  wondered  if  the  others  saw 
the  trembling  that  he  felt.  But  he  had  never  been 
more  alive,  never  more  keen-eyed  or  tightly  strung. 

"Remember,"  said  Savage  in  a  low  voice,  "the 
high  stroke  first ;  then  the  shield  ;  and  come  forward 
sharply  at  the  cope." 

B 


66  DREAMS   OF  YOUTH. 

A  moment  afterwards  a  loud  shout  went  up  from 
all  parts  of  the  ground  :  the  squire,  whom  nobody- 
knew,  was  seen  to  have  passed  by  the  targes  of 
Boucicaut  and  Sempy ;  amid  a  hurricane  of  applause 
his  spear  touched  the  war  shield  of  de  Roye. 

The  noise  came  dimly  to  John's  ears  inside  his 
padded  nutshell  of  steel;  but  he  saw  hands  and 
caps  waving,  and  as  he  came  back  to  his  place  his 
charger  seemed  to  be  stepping  on  a  lonely  height 
above  the  clouds.  Then  the  muffled  trumpet-note 
took  all  sense  from  him  for  a  moment :  he  woke 
to  see  his  adversary's  helm  so  near  and  clear  that 
to  miss  it  would  have  been  impossible :  not  till  he 
had  struck  it  and  passed  on  did  he  feel,  or  remember 
to  have  felt,  a  sharp  blow  upon  his  own  vizor.  He 
made  his  turn  with  perfect  ease;  everything  seemed 
easier  than  it  had  ever  been  before.  All  round  him 
the  waving  and  far-off  noise  continued. 

He  levelled  his  spear  again — for  the  body-stroke 
this  time :  he  saw  that  his  opponent  was  doing  the 
same.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  de  Roye's  shield : 
"Gules  with  a  bend  silver,"  he  repeated  to  himself 
to  pass  the  time,  for  it  seemed  long  before  the 
trumpet  sounded. 

At  last  he  was  off,  quite  wide  awake  now,  and 
spurring  his  charger.  He  came  forward  smartly 
for  the  shock,  and  felt  that  he  had  saved  himself 
by  doing  so :  the  horses  reeled  apart,  the  spears 
vanished  without  breaking,  and  John  found  himself 
pushing  a  half- stunned  charger   into   a    canter  for 


THE   FORTUNE    OF  JOHN   MAKLAND.  67 

the  turn.  A  moment  later  half  a  dozen  hands  were 
on  his  bridle,  his  helm  was  off,  his  coif  laid  back, 
and  the  full  roar  of  cheering  broke  on  his  ears. 

"  He  owes  me  one  more,  doesn't  he  ?  "  he  asked. 

"One  more,"  replied  the  Earl's  voice,  "and  I 
owe  you  a  gold  chain  if  you  win." 

But  knighthood  and  gold  chains  seemed  as  little 
now  to  John  as  any  other  of  the  small  affairs 
of  life :  he  was  concerned  with  states  of  being, 
not  with  things. 

"Thank  you,  my  lord,"  he  said,  and  felt  his 
mouth  stiff  and  salt  as  he  spoke :  he  was  breathing 
hard,  too,  and  losing  that  delightful  keenness  of 
the  senses.  He  took  a  deep  chestful  of  air, 
mounted  his  second  charger,  and  put  on  his  helm. 
There  was  the  red  and  white  shield  again,  but 
it  was  less  bright  now,  and  the  spear,  which  they 
had  picked  up  and  brought  back  to  him,  seemed 
a  little  heavier  than  before. 

At  what  a  pace  that  shield  was  coming :  he 
must  get  forward — forward — ah  ! — late  !  He  knew 
it,  and  knew  nothing  more  till  he  felt  cold  water 
splashing  over  his  face. 

"I  was  late,"  he  explained  as  they  raised  him. 

Above  him  the  Earl  was  looking  down  from  his 
saddle  with  the  unmoved  expression  of  one  who 
handles  a  dead  rabbit. 

"  So  the  crock  is  not  broken  this  time,"  he  said, 
and  presently  added,  "  You  wished  to  enter  my 
service,  I  believe?" 


68  DREAMS   OF   YOUTH. 

John  tried  in  vain  to  collect  his  senses :  he  had 
but  one  feeling  left  —  the  desire  to  escape  the 
presence  of  those  eyes.  He  saw  the  boys  by  their 
uncle's  side :  any  shelter  seemed  better  than  none. 

"I  am  pledged  to  my  lord  Thomas,"  he  said. 

"It  is  the  same  thing,"  said  the  Earl,  turning 
carelessly  away :  and  John  was  left  to  the  con- 
gratulations of  his  friends. 


PART    II. 
SHADOWS    BEFORE    DAWN 


XIV. 

"John,  do  you  remember  St  Inglebert?" 

The  question  brought  no  reply.  Nicholas  turned 
with  the  least  possible  exertion  which  would  serve 
his  purpose,  glanced  at  his  companion,  and,  seeing 
that  he  was  comfortably  sleeping,  lapsed  again  into 
the  deep  waters  of  reverie. 

The  scene  before  him  was  one  of  rare  and  un- 
surpassed loveliness:  even  in  England,  the  land  of 
homelike  sylvan  beauty,  even  in  Yorkshire,  with 
all  its  far  vistas  and  inuumerable  hills,  there  is 
no  place  of  delight  that  dare  boast  itself  above 
the  Arncliffe  woods,  nor  any  with  a  prospect  wider 
or  more  enchanted  than  that  which  they  look  upon 
towards  the  hour  of  sunset.  From  the  curving  edge 
of  their  high  terrace,  where  he  lay  in  a  chance 
gap  among  the  oak-trees,  Nicholas  could  see  close 
under  him  the  Hall,  the  garden,  and  the  tiny 
church  of  Arncliffe :  in  the  sheer  space  between, 
a  hawk  was  poised  in  mid-air,  swinging  now  and 
again  either  up  or  down,  to  left  or  right,  as  if  to 
sound  like  a  living  plummet  the  incredible  depth 
of  so   tranquil  an  abyss.     Beyond,  upon    the  plain, 


72  SHADOWS    BEFORE   DAWN. 

lay  Ingleby,  nestling  among  its  meadow  -  elms ; 
beyond  that  again  tbe  manor  of  Irby,  and  the 
great  grange  of  Rounton.  Due  west  his  eye  travelled 
on  over  the  Vale  of  Mowbray,  from  Harlesey  and 
Morton  towards  Danby  Wiske  and  Hutton  Bonville, 
tiny  specks  of  red  roof,  imagined  rather  than  seen, 
in  a  pattern  of  long  shadows ;  and  then  moved 
farther  and  farther  yet  into  the  infinitely  distant 
world  of  the  sunset,  where  range  beyond  range 
of  hills  glowed  with  the  soft  clear  outlines  and 
ethereal  colouring  of  dreamland. 

Presently  his  companion  stirred  and  sat  upright. 
Nicholas  showed  no  sign  that  he  had  been  wait- 
ing ;  he  repeated  his  question,  perhaps  a  very  little 
more  deliberately,  but  with  exactly  the  same  manner 
and  intonation  as  before. 

"  John,  do  you  remember  St  Inglebert  ?  " 

Marland  was  staring  at  the  far-away  glory.  "I 
do,"  he  replied  in  a  dreamy  tone,  which  proved 
that  he  certainly  did  not. 

Nicholas  was  patient  but  caustic.  "  You'll  re- 
member it  better  before  long,"  he  remarked;  "let 
me  remind  you  that  after  your  disgrace " 

"After  what?"  asked  John,  suddenly  roused. 

"After  your  disgrace  at  the  hands  of  that  young 
Frenchman,"  continued  his  friend  quietly,  "my 
lord  of  Huntingdon  was  good  enough  to  offer  you 
a  refuge  in  the  New  June." 

"Which  I  did  not  accept,"  retorted  John. 

"Which    you    accepted    on    the   spot,    and    have 


THE    AIR   OP  THE   NEW   JUNE.  73 

eajoyed    ever   since,"    said    Nicholas    in    a    tone    of 
courteous  assent. 

"  Oh,  look  here  !  "  John  remonstrated,  "  you  know 
all  about  it :  I  thought  .  .  .  that  is,  I  expected  .  .  ." 

"I  see — and  then  it  all  turned  out  quite  differ- 
ently from  what  you  thought  or  expected." 

"  You  needn't  ask  me  how  it  turned  out,"  said 
John ;  "  you've  been  living  cheek  by  jowl  with 
me  these  five  years  :  what  are  you  driving  at  ? " 

"I  neither  drive  nor  am  driven." 

"J  am  driven,  I  suppose  you  mean." 

"You  and  the  rest,"  replied  Nicholas  in  the  same 
quiet  and  cheerful  tone,  "down  a  steep  place." 

John  laughed.  "  You've  started  this  argument 
before,"  he  said ;  "  but  it  is  the  first  time  you've 
called  me  a  swine." 

"An  oversight,"  replied  Nicholas;  "let  us  say 
sheep :  it  is  not  the  herd  but  the  devils  that 
matter." 

"Well?" 

"The  devils  of  this  age,"  said  the  monk,  "are 
the  familiar  spirits  of  the  rich :  their  names  are 
Spend,  Get,  and  Ruthless." 

"If  it  is  a  devil  that  possesses  me,"  replied  John, 
"it  is  a  different  one  from  those :  in  five  years  I  have 
only  once  spent  more  than  I  had  to  spend,  I  have 
never  made  a  penny,  and  I  have  certainly  not  been 
ruthless,  —  I  wish  I  had."  He  ended  with  a  tinge 
of  bitterness. 

Nicholas    looked    kindly    at    him    and    his    voice 


74  SHADOWS   BEFOKE   DAWN. 

changed.  "What  you  say  is  true  enough,  dear 
sheep ;  your  demon  is  another,  and  you  call  him 
Loyalty." 

"What  now?"  John  retorted;  "you  are  a  king's 
man  yourself." 

"I  am,"  said  the  other,  "so  long  as  the  king 
holds  of  his  overlord,  no  longer."  He  crossed 
himself,  and  his  eyes  sought  John's  with  an  un- 
mistakable challenge.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence ;  John  looked  uneasy,  but  seemed  finally  to 
decide  on  resistance. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said  in  a  still 
more  combative  tone.  "  I  never  know  what  you 
religious  people  mean.  I  am  bound  to  the  king 
by  the  tenure  of  my  lands,  by  my  duty  to  my 
natural  lord,  and  by  a  vow  made  before  the  altar 
of  Our  Lady  of  Barking,  as  you  know  very  well : 
how  do  you  propose  that  I  should  stifle  these  obliga- 
tions ?    Under  a  cowl  ?  " 

Nicholas  bent  his  head ;  a  deep  flush  dyed  his 
massive  neck  and  temples,  but  he  made  no  reply. 
John  continued  his  argument. 

"I  know  you  think  Richard  high-handed,  but 
what  would  you  have?     A  king  must  be  a  king." 

The  monk  lifted  a  perfectly  serene  face.  "Cer- 
tainly," he  said,  "a  king  cannot  be  less  than  a 
king." 

John  did  not  miss  the  meaning  in  his  voice,  but 
he  ignored  it.  "  Very  well,  then  j  we  help  him  to 
his  own." 


THE    AIR  OP  THE   NEW    JUNE.  75 

"In  the  language  of  the  New  June,"  asked 
Nicholas,  "  what  does  '  his  own  '  mean  ?  Does  it 
include  his  revenge  ?  " 

John  seemed  to  feel  the  net  closing  round  him, 
and  he  struggled  the  more  fiercely.  "Look  here," 
he  exclaimed,  "I'll  tell  you  how  it  is:  I  play  the 
game  of  life,  and  you  stand  by  and  claim  to  criti- 
cise though  you  have  never  taken  a  hand  yourself. 
What  would  you  do  if  you  were  one  of  us?  When 
Richard  was  young  he  was  at  his  uncle's  mercy; 
high-handed  was  no  word  for  Gloucester  in  those 
days,  and  Arundel  and  Warwick  were  as  bad.  As 
for  ruthlessness,  if  ever  any  one  was  ruthless, — 
have  you  forgotten  how  John  Salusbury  died,  and 
old  Sir  Simon  Burley?  And  why  must  Oxford 
go? — driven  out  like  a  dog!  Is  a  man  to  have  no 
friends  because  he  happens  to  be  king?  You  speak 
as  a  preacher  of  peace,  but  you  seem  to  forget  on 
which  side  peace  lies.  What  king  of  England  has 
ever  thought  less  of  war  and  conquest  or  more  of 
the  prosperity  of  the  country  ?  Why,  his  un warlike 
character  is  made  a  continual  reproach  to  him,  and 
by  whom?  By  these  same  princely  bullies  whom 
you  would  save  from  the  punishment  they  have 
been  earning  for  years.  I  tell  you  that  if  you 
don't  know  the  truth  about  Gloucester  you  are  the 
last  man  left  to  hear  it :  he  hasn't  even  the  decency 
to  keep  his  treason  to  himself ;  he  bawls  aloud  for 
war,  war,  war  with  France,  war  on  any  pretext 
and    in  face    of    any   obligations    to    the    contrary. 


76  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

Perhaps  you  remember,  when  we  had  war  with 
France  in  '86,  how  this  noble  warrior  and  his 
gang  behaved.  While  the  enemy  were  planning 
invasion  they  blocked  all  business  in  both  Houses, 
to  get  poor  Suffolk  out  of  office,  and  then,  when 
for  all  they  knew  the  French  fleet  might  be  in 
the  Thames  at  any  moment,  they  talked  openly  of 
dethroning  the  king  himself.  You  don't  need  me 
to  tell  you  these  things,  Nicholas —  you  are  older 
than  I  am,  you  were  in  London  all  through.  Who 
was  it  that  moved  for  the  record  of  Edward  the 
Second's  deposition  to  be  read  aloud  in  Parliament, 
to  acquaint  honourable  members  with  the  forms  of 
the  Constitution  in  certain  cases  made  and  pro- 
vided? Who  was  it  that  invented  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment  an  ancient  statutory  right  for 
Parliament  to  remove  a  king  and  to  put  in  his 
place  some  other  member  of  the  royal  house? 
Some  other  member !  I  tell  you  that  the  country 
is  unsafe  while  such  a  ruffian  is  allowed  to  be  at 
large :  the  safety  of  the  country  is  the  king's  first 
duty,  and  if  we  can  help  him  to  secure  it,  why 
are  we  swine  or  sheep  ? " 

Nicholas  listened  with  grave  courtesy  to  this 
harangue,  as  though  he  had  never  heard  any  of 
the  points  before.  He  replied  in  a  tone  so  simple 
and  yet  so  cool  that  no  one  could  have  divined 
whether  his  mood  was  one  of  candour  or  of  irony. 

"  My  dear  John,  I  have  nothing  to  say  for  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester  :    I   was  anxious   for   your    own 


IN   ARNCLIFFE   WOODS.  77 

soul,  and  you  have  convinced  me.  If  your  con- 
science is  on  guard,  mine  may  sleep  in  peace." 

John  looked  a  little  uncomfortable.  "  I  don't  say 
that,"  he  began. 

"  But  I  do,"  replied  his  friend ;  "  I  am  sure  of 
it.     Now  let  us  be  getting  homewards." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  moved  away  along  the 
green  terrace  path  to  the  south  :  John  followed  him 
more  slowly  and  with  a  dissatisfied  air.  At  the 
entrance  of  the  first  short  cut  to  the  right  Nicholas 
plunged  down  the  steep  hillside,  and  kept  his  lead 
till  they  reached  the  lowest  track  of  all,  which 
wound  between  the  edge  of  the  wood  and  the 
boundary-fence  of  the  cultivated  land  below.  When 
John  overtook  him  at  last  they  were  both  hot  and 
breathless. 

"Too  steep  for  August,"  said  the  monk  genially,  as 
they  halted,  "  and  it  was  I  that  drove  you  down  that." 

John  took  his  arm,  but  without  a  smile  :  he  still 
looked  preoccupied,  and  they  walked  on  in  silence. 


XV. 

The  forest  path  along  which  they  were  now  moving 
formed  a  natural  gallery  or  cloister;  on  their  left 
the  steep  bank  of  oakwood  rose  like  a  solid  wall,  on 
the   right    a  hedge  with  frequent    gaps   let   in   the 


78  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

last  fading  shafts  of  sunset :  above  them  the  roof 
was  groined  with  overhanging  branches,  and  the 
massy  foliage  of  its  vault  was  already  dense  with 
the  gathering  twilight. 

John,  as  he  leaned  moodily  upon  his  friend's  arm, 
saw  little  of  all  this  beyond  the  green  floor  at  his 
feet ;  but  he  was  conscious  of  a  slackening  of  the 
pace  at  which  he  was  being  led,  and  when  Nicholas 
stopped  altogether  he  looked  suddenly  up. 

Forty  yards  ahead  of  them,  at  a  point  where  the 
path  began  to  curve,  two  girls  were  gazing  eagerly 
through  the  hedge  into  the  field  below.  Their 
hunting-dresses  of  green  cloth  made  them  one  with 
the  sylvan  background,  into  which  it  seemed  that 
they  might  at  any  moment  fade  again  as  silently 
as  they  had  appeared :  they  were  moving  mysteri- 
ously upon  tiptoe,  and  with  intense  precaution. 
An  instant  later  they  stepped  forward  out  of  the 
shadow,  and  John  saw  that  they  carried  bows: 
they  raised  their  hands  together,  and  drew  their 
arrows  to  the  head  with  the  grace  that  belongs 
to  no  sport  but  that  of  archery.  Then,  almost 
before  the  bolts  could  reach  their  mark,  they  both 
ran  forward  into  the  gap  through  which  they  had 
aimed,  and  peered  through  it  to  see  the  effect  of 
the  volley,  still  keeping  silence  with  the  self-re- 
straint of  practised  shots. 

Their  search  was  apparently  fruitless,  and  Nicholas 
thought  his  time  had  come  for  moving  on.  As  he 
did  so  his  white  dress  caught  the  eye  of  one  of  the 


IN   ARNCLIFFE    WOODS.  79 

archers :  she  uttered  an  indignant  exclamation,  and 
said  something  to  her  companion  which  was  not 
quite  so  audible.  The  second  lady,  who  was  less 
tall  and  of  a  slighter  figure,  laid  her  hand  gently 
upon  her  arm  as  if  to  hold  her  back,  but  she  broke 
away  and  came  quickly  along  the  path  towards  the 
two  men.  They  halted  again  as  she  approached, 
and  greeted  her  with  a  rather  confused  bow,  for 
they  had  some  inkling  of  who  she  was  and  what 
she  was  about  to  say. 

There  was  anger  in  every  stride  that  brought 
her  down  upon  them,  and  in  the  curt  nod  with 
which  she  brushed  the  monk  aside  and  turned 
abruptly  to  speak  to  John. 

"Good  evening,"  she  said;  "my  name  is  Mar- 
garet Ingleby :  I  need  not  ask  yours,  but  perhaps 
you  will  tell  me  how  far  you  have  come  along 
this  track." 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied;  "we  have  been  over 
to  Arncliffe." 

"Then  you  have  spoiled  what  little  chance  we 
had  left,  as  your  Holland  friends  have  spoiled  our 
hawking  all  day." 

The  scorn  in  her  voice  stung  John  the  more  because 
of  the  rare  beauty  of  its  tone:  the  words  were 
petulant  enough  in  themselves,  but  the  sheer  music 
of  them  vibrated  among  his  heartstrings,  and 
roused  in  him  a  kind  of  answering  passion. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  I  regret  that  anything 
should   anger   you  ;    but    those   who   pluck    another 


80  SHADOWS   BEFORE   n  \WN. 

man's    tree  can   hardly   complain    if    the   owner  ha« 
been  before  them." 

"The  owner!"  she  cried  indignantly;  "I  am 
on  my  father's  manor  of  Bordelby." 

"My  young  lord,"  retorted  John,  "uses  the 
same  words  with  better  right." 

Her  grey  eyes  flashed  straight  into  his.  "A 
claim,"  she  said,  "is  not  always  a  right,  sir." 

"But  in  this  case,"  he  replied,  "there  is  both: 
the  Earl  inherits  from  the  Stutvilles." 

She  turned  upon  him  again  like  lightning. 

"That  may  be  an  answer  for  the  lawyers:  for 
the  rest  of  us,  a  wry  neck  is  none  the  less  ugly 
for  being  hereditary." 

He  glanced  instinctively  at  the  slender  and 
shapely  neck  before  him,  and  then  up  again  to 
the  grey  eyes.  The  angry  sunset  fire  had  gone 
out  of  them,  and  a  faint  light  like  that  of  the 
first  stars  seemed  to  be  twinkling  in  their  depths. 
After  all  she  was  very  young,  and  her  adversary 
was  clearly  at  her  feet.  In  another  moment  they 
were  both  smiling.  "This  really  cannot  go  on," 
she  said,  and  her  gentler  voice  moved  him  no 
less  than  before.  "  My  father  says  you  do  it 
every  year." 

"I  have  been  here  five  times  now,"  he  replied, 
"by  the  Earl's  order,  of  course,  to  keep  his  claim 
alive." 

She  smiled  again  at  the  earnestness  of  this 
plea.      "Five    wrongs    don't    make    a    right  —  and 


IN    ARNCLTFFE   WOODS.  81 

never    will,    however    long    you    go    on    adding    to 
them." 

She  looked  round  and  saw  that  her  friend  was 
now  standing  at  her  side.  Her  face  was  grave 
again  as  she  turned  to  John. 

"  You  are  on  your  way  home  :  we  will  not 
keep  you   any  longer." 

The  sudden  ooldness  of  this  dismissal  paralysed 
John:  lie  bowed  mechanically  and  turned  away 
to  follow  Nicholas,  who  was  already  some  way 
ahead.  But  before  he  had  made  up  half  the 
distance  he  became  aware  of  a  light  footstep 
behind  him.  He  turned  in  astonishment  and  met 
the  grey  eyes  onoe  more. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  said  the  lady 
a  little  breathlessly,  considering  the  short  distance 
she  had  run. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  John  as  she  hesitated,  but  he 
wished  that  it  might  be  long  before  the  something 
was  told. 

"  It  is  not  the  sport  that  I  oare  about  —  and 
in  any  case  my  own  pleasure  is  nothing  ;  but 
this  is  not  a  very  large  place,  and  I  was  afraid, 
after  what  has  happened  the  first  day,  that  we 
may  be  constantly  meeting  some  of  your  party." 

John  was  silent  :  he  oould  not  say  thai  he 
hoped  not. 

"I  must  tell  you  why  it  is  so  impossible  —  so 
utterly  impossible,"  she  said;  "the  lady  with  me 
is  Lady  Joan  Stafford." 

P 


82  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

John's  face  fell :  he  knew  that  there  was  a  bitter 
feud  between  the  Hollands  and  the  Staffords,  and 
though  he  had  never  had  an  opinion  of  his  own 
upon  the  quarrel,  which  arose  long  before  his  time, 
he  had  heard  enough  to  feel  sure  that  the  fault 
lay  with  Lord  Huntingdon,  whom  he  had  never 
ceased  to  mistrust  since  he  first  flinched  from  his 
cruel  eyes  five  years  ago  at  Calais.  It  was  on 
the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  say  that  Tom  and  Edmund 
were  not  in  the  least  like  their  uncle,  but  a  better 
inspiration  came.  "I  think,"  he  said,  "that  I  can 
do  something ;  at  any  rate,  I  will  do  my  best. 
How  long  will  Lady  Joan  be  with  you  ? " 

"A  week  at  least,  and  we  meant  to  go  out 
every  day." 

His  own  thought  made  him  flush  guiltily.  "If 
you  could  be  on  the  moor  early  to-morrow,"  he 
said,  "I  would  try  to  keep  them  away  from  the 
Arncliffe  end,  at  all  events." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  warmly,  and  gave  him 
her  hand. 

Nicholas  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  gate,  but 
John  was  not  communicative.  "  I'll  tell  you  about 
it  later  on,"  was  all  that  he  thought  necessary  by 
way  of  apology  for  his  delay. 


MANORIAL   RTGITTS.  83 


XVI. 

If    John    had    not    seen    them    since    the    days    of 
St  Inglebert   he  would   hardly  have   recognised  his 
boyish  friends  Tom  and  Edmund  in  the  two  young 
men  who  met  him    on   his  way  back  this  evening. 
Time   had    done   much   for  both    of   them,  and  had 
taken    but    little     toll    in    return.      Edmund    had 
grown    into    a    tall    youth    of    seventeen :    he    had 
almost  lost   his  charming   stammer,  but  the  poetry 
had  not  yet   died   out   of   his   brown   eyes,  and  he 
still   combined    a   faculty  of  going  abruptly  to  the 
heart   of   a   matter  with   a   love  of   romance  which 
often    appeared    oddly   inconsistent    with    it.      Tom 
seemed    at   first   sight   to   have   gained   even   more : 
he  was  a  man  now,  almost  twenty-one,  and  on  the 
verge  of  knighthood  and  a  separate  establishment. 
He    took    a    more    serious    view    of    life    than    was 
apparent   from    his    manner,    which   was    still   boy- 
ishly quick  and    eager.      To   those   who   knew  him 
as  intimate  friends  there  was  some  weakness,  some 
pride,  some   wilfulness   to   be   regretted ;   but  these 
faults  were  redeemed  by  a  warmth  of  heart  which 
often  put  them  all  three  into  the  background.     In 
the   presence    of    Nicholas    Love    he    never    lost   his 
grip :  to  John  he  was  never  anything  but  an  equal 
and   a   reasonable  being.      His   real  danger  lay  not 
so   much   in   his   own   character   as   in   that   of  his 


84  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

■ 
uncle  Huntingdon,   who    held  him   in   the   collar  of 

old  habit  and  affection,  and   had   learned   only  too 

thoroughly  how  to  lead  him  easily  at  will. 

To-night  the  elder  brother  was  in  a  silent  mood, 
very  unusual  with  him,  and  as  they  sat  at  supper 
it  was  Edmund  who  gave  John  an  account  of  the 
day's  sport.  They  had  spent  some  nine  hours  on 
the  heather,  the  hawks  had  done  well,  and  the 
grouse  had  been  plentiful.  But  the  great  event 
had  been  their  meeting  with  the  two  ladies  who 
had  come  up  to  the  moor  in  the  afternoon,  and 
been  quite  as  much  astonished,  though  not,  as  it 
appeared,  so  openly  indignant,  at  the  encounter 
with  them  as  at  their  second  interruption  by  John 
and  Nicholas  in  the  evening. 

John  found  himself  taking  the  side  of  the  ladies 
when  it  came  to  the  argument  about  rights. 

"  After  all,"  he  said,  "  we  haven't  very  much 
to  go  upon :  I  felt  that  myself." 

Tom  looked  up  quickly  at  this,  but  said  nothing. 
Edmund  was  loud  enough  for  both. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  remonstrated; 
"  we're  in  our  own  house  here,  on  our  own  manor." 

"The  house,"  said  John,  "is  a  hunting  lodge,  and 
a  small  one  at  that :  it  has  been  the  custom  of  your 
family  to  call  it  a  manor  house,  in  order  to  lend 
colour  to  their  claim.  But  that  doesn't  settle  the 
matter.  Sir  John  Ingleby  has  a  set-off  to  your 
house — he  has  a  private  chapel  on  the  place :  there's 
something  very  seigueurial  about  a  private  chapel." 


MANORIAL   RIGHTS.  85 

Torn  growled :  the  conversation  seemed  to  dis- 
please him. 

"There's  something  very  seignenrial  about  Tom 
to-night,"  said  his  brother.  "I  suppose  it  is  the 
cold  wind  just  before  the  sunrise.  Another  year, 
you  know,  we  shall  not  be  sitting  here  like  this, 
all  four  together ;  Nicholas  will  have  a  side  table,  and 
you  and  I,  John,  will  be  waiting  on  Sir  Thomas." 

"  Quite  right,"  replied  John,  laughing ;  "  that's 
what  I'm  for :  happily  I'm  used  to  it." 

Tom  looked  reproachfully  at  him.  "In  London," 
he  said,  "  I  can't  alter  the  rules  there ;  but  you 
don't  wait  on  me  here,  and  you  never  will." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  John,  remembering  his  promise 
to  the  archers,  "I  shall  attend  you  to-morrow  on 
the  moor." 

"There  will  be  no  hawking  to-morrow,"  replied 
Tom. 

Edmund  exclaimed  loudly. 

"Well,"  said  his  brother,  "at  any  rate  not  in 
the  morning.  It's  no  use  making  a  row,  Edmund 
— the  matter's  settled.  I've  sent  to  Ingleby  to  say 
that  if  his  daughters  like  to  go  out  first  they  shall 
not  be  disturbed  by  us." 

"They're  not  his  daughters,"  retorted  Edmund; 
"he's  only  got  one  daughter." 

"I'm   aware   of   the  fact,"  replied  Tom,  "but   as 

I   don't   know  the    other    young   lady's   name " 

He  looked  at  John  :  but  John  pretended  not  to  see, 
and  turned  the  subjeot. 


86  SHADOWS    BKFOliE    DAWN. 

'I'm  glad  you've  done  that,"  lie  said.  "I  had 
thought  of  suggesting  something  of  the  kind  my- 
self." 

"The  fact  is,"  remarked  Edmund  severely,  "old 
Ingleby's  been  too  much  for  you  both ;  he  has 
put  his  women  and  children  in  front,  and  you  can't 
shoot." 

Tom  was  not  above  scoring,  however  irrelevantly. 

"The  children  are  just  your  age  and  size,"  he 
retorted. 

"  One  of  them  was,"  replied  Edmund,  "  the  tall 
one — she's  Margaret  Ingleby.  I  remember  her  in 
short  frocks.  But  the  little  one  was  quite  different 
— she  spoke  to  me  as  if  she  was  my  aunt :  she 
was  almost  as  seigneurial  as  you,  Tom." 

He  delivered  this  as  a  parting  shot  from  the 
doorway,  through  which  he  was  following  Nicholas, 
candle  in  hand.  After  a  moment's  silence  John,  too, 
rose  to  go,  and  stood  waiting  for  his  young  lord. 

Tom  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  him  straight  in 
the  face. 

"John,"  he  said,  "who  was  the  other  girl?  I'm 
certain  you  know." 

"  I  do,"  replied  John.     "  Her  name  is  Joan  Stafford." 

Tom  winced  and  looked  dazed,  as  if  some  one  had 
struck  him  unexpectedly,  but  the  quick  pride  of 
youth  saved  him. 

"Stafford?"  he  said.  "Who  cares?"  But  from 
that  word  till  his  squire  bade  him  good-night  there 
was  no  more  conversation  between  them. 


TALES   OF  THE   NRU1T.  87 


XVII. 

John  slept  restlessly,  and  before  midnight  was  once 
more  wide  awake.  His  window  had  no  curtain,  and 
the  light  of  a  full  moon  was  pouring  into  the  room : 
the  owls  were  no  longer  screeching  close  to  the  house, 
but  from  far  up  the  hill  came  the  ghostly  voices  of 
their  more  musical  kiudred,  shout  after  shout  quiver- 
ing with  the  delight  of  their  aerial  chase. 

He  looked  out  into  the  cool  night :  the  great  silver 
disk  hung  like  a  lantern  just  above  the  topmost 
ridge  of  the  wood :  the  steep  hillside  was  like  a 
monstrous  black  wave  silvered  on  all  its  feathery 
edges,  never  breaking,  but  always  about  to  break 
and  bury  the  whole  world  in  fathomless  darkness. 
Under  it  lay  the  smooth  shallows  of  the  bare  little 
garden,  a  lawn  grey -green  and  a  path  all  white, 
along  which  ran  a  low  wall  whiter  and  colder  still. 
Against  this  wall  a  figure  leaned,  as  silent  and 
motionless  as  the  stones  themselves :  rigid  enough 
it  looked  in  the  moonlight  to  be  mistaken  for  a 
statue,  and  John,  who  knew  well  that  it  could  be 
nothing  less  human  than  Nicholas,  found  himself 
gazing  fixedly  at  the  outline  of  the  tall  white  cowl, 
and  wondering  whether  the  moment  would  ever 
come  when  he  would  see  it  move. 

It  moved  at  last  —  very  slightly,  but  the  mood 
was  broken.     John  dressed  quickly  and  went  down. 


88  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

He  made  what  seemed  to  him  a  loud  noise  upon 
the  path,  but  Nicholas  did  not  stir.  They  leaned 
side  by  side  against  the  wall,  and  for  some  time 
neither  spoke  a  word.  John's  mind  no  doubt  was 
less  at  peace  than  his  friend's,  for  it  was  he  who 
broke  the  silence  at  last. 

"Nicholas,"  he  asked  in  a  voice  subdued  to  the 
quiet  that  surrounded  them,  "  what  was  the  begin- 
ning of  this  feud  ?  " 

Nicholas  knew  that  he  could  only  be  thinking 
of  the  quarrel  with  the  Staffords,  but  he  paused  so 
long  before  replying  that  John  was  almost  startled 
when  the  answer  came. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  will  tell  you.  You  won't 
thank  me ;  possibly  you  won't  believe  me :  but  you 
ought  to  have  the  chance." 

He  was  silent  again,  as  if  collecting  his  thoughts. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  you  have  not 
heard  the  story ;  but  I  suppose  you  were  a  child  at 
the  time.  It  is  ten  years  old  now,  and  no  one 
cares  to  speak  of  it ;  but  what  has  been  sown  must 
be  reaped  some  day.  Now  listen  and  tell  me  what 
you  think.  The  king  was  at  Beverley,  on  his  way 
north  against  the  Scots :  he  was  a  boy,  of  course, 
in  the  hands  of  his  uncles.  Both  the  Hollands 
were  with  him — Kent  and  Huntingdon,  then  Sir 
John — and  many  more,  among  them  Lord  Stafford 
and  his  son  Sir  Ralph,  and  a  Bohemian  knight  who 
was  over  on  a  mission  to  the  queen.  They  were 
quartered  in  the  villages  round,  and  it  happened  by 


TALES   OP   THE   NIGHT.  89 

ill-luck  that  the  Bohemian  was  given  a  good  house 
which  Sir  Johu  Holland's  people  had  already  marked, 
or  claimed  to  have  marked.  Two  of  Holland's  squires 
went  over  to  see  about  it :  they  found  the  knight 
just  outside  the  village  and  had  some  words  with 
him.  The  argument  seems  to  have  been  conducted 
on  strictly  national  lines :  the  Bohemian  was  smil- 
ing and  unintelligible,  and  gesticulated  a  good  deal ; 
the  Englishmen  were  very  English — the  elder  of 
them  doggedly  refused  to  yield  his  point  and  de- 
clared that  he  would  not  leave  the  knight  till  he 
gave  in,  the  younger  one  forgot  his  manners  and 
ridiculed  the  foreigner's  broken  English." 

John  changed  his  position :  Nicholas  took  the 
movement  for  one  of  impatience. 

"  I  tell  you  all  this  at  some  length,"  he  said, 
"but  I  have  a  reason  for  doing  so.  I  am  draw- 
ing a  picture :  it  is  not  my  fault  if  it  is  not  a 
pleasing  one." 

"No,  no,"  replied  John,  "you  mistake;  I  was 
listening." 

"While  the  scene  was  going  on,"  Nicholas  con- 
tinued, "  two  archers  happened  to  come  up.  They 
were  Stafford's  men,  and  they,  too,  were  quite 
English.  They  drew  attention  to  the  fact  that  the 
valiant  squires  were  two  against  one,  and  also 
suggested  that  a  little  courtesy  would  be  in  place 
in  dealing  with  a  stranger  and  a  fellow-countryman 
of  the  queen.  The  squires  reminded  them,  in  reply, 
that  archers  were  persons  of  subordinate  rank :   to 


90  SHADOWS   BEEOHE   DAWN. 

which  they  returned  that  this  consideration  did 
not  trouble  them  at  all,  for  their  master,  Sir 
Ralph  Stafford,  was  any  man's  equal,  and  was  a 
friend  of  the  Bohemian  knight." 

The  ironical  tone  of  the  narrative  did  not  escape 
John's  ear,  but  he  made  no  comment. 

"The  younger  squire,"  Nicholas  went  on,  "there- 
upon remembered  his  own  rank  and  its  advan- 
tages. He  drew  his  sword  and  struck  at  the  near- 
est archer,  who  had,  he  thought,  no  sufficient  answer 
to  this  argument.  The  man,  however,  was  holding 
his  bow  ready  bent  in  his  hand ;  he  sprang  back 
and  laid  an  arrow  on  the  string;  then  he  cordially 
invited  his  adversary  to  a  continuance  of  the  dis- 
cussion on  the  same  lines.  The  squire  saw  the 
weakness  of  his  own  point,  and  hesitated  ;  but  his 
companion,  a  man  who  never  wastes  time  over 
speech  or  scruples,  gave  the  word  to  charge,  and 
they  both  ran  in.  The  boy  was  instantly  shot 
through  the  body :  his  friend  carried  him  the  whole 
way  back  to  Beverley,  but  he  was  dead  before  they 
reached  the  town. 

"  The  news  of  what  had  happened  was  brought 
to  Stafford  and  Holland  about  the  same  time.  It 
seemed  not  unlikely  that  both  sides  had  been  partly 
to  blame  :  in  such  a  case  two  lines  are  always  open 
to  be  taken.  Sir  Ralph's  view  perhaps  hardly  be- 
fitted his  station  :  he  merely  told  his  man  he  would 
do  his  best  for  him  if  he  kept  quiet,  and  set  out 
for    Beverley    at    once    to    see    what    reparation    he 


TALES    OF   THE    NIGHT.  91 

could  make.  Holland  chose  the  more  high-minded 
course  :  he  undertook  in  plain  language  to  be  re- 
venged on  the  foreigner  or  to  forfeit  his  soul  if  he 
failed,  and  rode  off  with  a  dozen  men  at  his  back 
to  look  for  consolation  of  the  one  kind  or  the  other. 
It  was  now  late  at  night  and  quite  dark :  in  a 
naiTOw  lane  he  saw  horsemen  approaching.  Their 
leader,  in  answer  to  a  question,  gave  his  name  as 
Ralph  Stafford.  Holland  drew  at  once,  and  judging 
it  unnecessary  to  give  a  young  and  inexperienced 
swordsman  the  trouble  of  defending  himself,  especi- 
ally in  the  dark,  he  put  an  end  to  the  quarrel,  so 
far  as  Sir  Ralph  was  concerned,  with  a  single  blow, 
and  returned  to  Beverley,  where  he  took  sanctuary 
in  the  House  of  St  John. 

"  Next  day,  after  burying  his  son,  the  Earl  of 
Stail'ord  with  fifty  or  sixty  of  his  friends  came  to 
the  king  and  demanded  justice.  Holland's  people 
complained  at  the  same  time  of  the  loss  of  a  valu- 
able squire.  The  king  undertook  to  give  satisfac- 
tion to  both  parties  :  he  took  formal  possession  of 
Holland's  estates  as  a  security  and  made  him  found 
three  chaplaincies  at  Langley  ;  then  gave  him  back 
his  property  and  added  as  much  again,  married 
him  to  Lancaster's  daughter,  and  appointed  him 
Constable  of  the  Spanish  expedition  ;  on  his  return 
he  gave  him  more  land  and  the  Earldom  of  Hunt- 
ingdon. So  you  see  neither  party  came  away 
empty-handed  ;  some  thought  the  balance  seemed  a 
little  heavier  on  one  side  than   the   other ;  but  it 


92  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

must  be  remembered  that  the  Earl  of  Stafford, 
from  an  exaggerated  sense  of  discipline,  neglected 
to  press  his  claims  during  the  whole  time  the 
army  was  in  Scotland,  while  the  Hollands  showed 
untiring  diligence  in  strengthening  the  hands  of 
justice." 

The  story  overclouded  John's  mind  with  a  storm 
of  doubt,  akin  to  that  which  had  troubled  his 
horizon  on  the  hill  that  afternoon.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  the  irony  which  his  friend  almost  invari- 
ably used,  whether  in  a  humorous  or  a  severer 
mood:  but  there  was  one  phrase  here  which  had 
lit  up  the  tumult  of  his  thoughts  like  a  lightning 
flash,  and  seemed  to  have  burnt  itself  upon  his 
brain.  The  elder  of  the  two  squires — the  one  upon 
whom  the  guilt  of  both  these  violent  deaths  mainly 
rested  —  how  had  Nicholas  spoken  of  him?  "A 
man  who  never  wastes  time  over  speech  or  scruples." 
The  description  was  only  too  vivid :  and  the  word 
"  wastes  "  brought  it  terribly  near. 

"You  spoke  of  the  squire  as  though  you  still 
knew  him." 

To  this  Nicholas  returned  no  reply.  John  waited 
long,  and  tried  more  than  once  to  see  the  expression 
upon  his  companion's  face ;  but  the  monk's  head 
was  sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  not  even  the  outline 
of  his  features  could  be  distinguished  in  the  deep 
shadow  beneath  his  cowl.  "Was  it  Swynnerton?" 
John  knew  in  his  heart  that  he  was  answered : 
this  silence  was  an  assent  to  his  worst  fear,  louder 


TALES    OP  THE    NIGHT.  93 

than  words,  and  a  kind  of  despairing  impulse  drove 
him  to  heap  his  own  misery  higher  still. 

"I  have  a  story,  too,  that  I  must  tell  you,"  he 
said ;  "  I  have  kept  it  from  you  for  more  than  a 
year,  but  I  knew,  after  what  you  said  this  after- 
noon, that  I  couldn't  hide  it  much  longer — it  has 
often  troubled  me. 

"  Two  years  ago,  when  lavage  and  Swynnerton 
were  still  unmarried,  Savage  came  to  me  one  day 
and  told  me  that  Roger's  lady  had  agreed  to  marry 
him  at  once  if  he  could  get  her  divorced  from 
Villeneuve.  The  only  difficulty  was  the  expense: 
the  amount  it  would  cost  to  send  the  petition  to 
Rome  and  present  it  and  get  it  through  was  quite 
beyond  anything  Roger  could  raise.  Savage  pro- 
posed that  he  and  I  should  find  the  money  between 
us :  I  was  pleased  with  the  idea  of  doing  something 
for  Roger  that  he  couldn't  do  for  himself,  and  I 
knew  that  I  should  be  helping  on  Savage,  too, 
with  his  own  affair,  for  Roger  and  he  had  made  a 
bargain  to  back  each  other.  The  business  was  not 
easy,  but  it  was  done,  and  Swynnerton  was  married, 
as  you  remember,  and  went  to  live  at  his  wife's 
place  in  Staffordshire.  You  remember,  too,  how  he 
was  arrested  not  long  afterwards  on  suspicion  of 
having  been  concerned  in  the  death  of  Sir  John 
Ipstones.  There  was  very  little  evidence  available, 
and  when  Parliament  had  risen  Huntingdon  got 
him  released,  the  charge  was  dropped,  and  to  this 
moment  no  one  has  ever  known  the  truth." 


94  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

"I  have,"  said  Nicholas  from  the  sombre  shadow 
of  his  hood. 

John  started.  "  Since  when  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Who 
told  you?" 

"Yourself:  to-night,"  replied  the  voice  from  the 
shadow. 

It  was  clear  enough :  the  story  of  Stafford's  death 
had  been  purposely  told  so  as  to  throw  Swynner- 
ton's  figure  into  relief,  and  John  saw  that  his  own 
evident  anxiety  about  one  crime  had  confirmed  sus- 
picions as  to  the  other,  long  dormant  but  never 
forgotten.  The  whole  drama  of  his  own  story  came 
before  him  as  a  hideous  picture,  and  he  felt  relief 
in  the  thought  that  henceforth  he  would  not  have 
to  look  at  it  alone;  he  was  in  haste  to  put  it  all 
before  his  friend. 

"The  boys  had  gone  to  Conway  with  Hunting- 
don," he  said,  —  "I  have  lied  a  hundred  times  to 
keep  them  from  knowing  where  I  was  that  night. 
We  two — Savage  and  I — had  leave  for  a  week,  as 
we  were  so  near  home.  We  met  Swynnerton  by 
arrangement  at  a  small  inn  near  Cannock.  At 
dinner  he  told  us  that  Ipstones  was  going  up  to 
London  to  take  his  seat  in  the  House,  and  would 
be  passing  close  to  where  we  were  that  same 
afternoon,  with  four  or  five  men  with  him.  He 
meant  to  challenge  him  for  his  disgraceful  treat- 
ment of  Maud  Swynnerton,  Roger's  cousin — he  had 
shut  her  up  and  plundered  her  and  married  her  to 
his  wretched  son.     It  sounded  like  a  chance  of  hard 


TALES   OF  THE    NIGHT.  95 

fighting,  and  Savage  and  I  agreed  to  stand  by 
him.  We  left  the  inn  after  dinner  and  went  a 
mile  or  two  to  some  cross  roads ;  there  we  waited 
in  the  side  road ;  it  began  to  get  towards  dusk, 
but  no  one  came.  It  was  a  sunless  January  day : 
I  thought  it  would  soon  be  too  dark  for  fighting 
and  I  said  so,  but  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of 
Swynnerton,  and  Savage  only  laughed. 

"  At  last  we  heard  the  sound  of  hoofs :  across  the 
angle  of  the  roads  we  saw  a  single  figure  close  to  us, 
and  we  could  tell  by  the  clatter  behind  that  others 
were  following  at  some  little  distance.  We  trotted 
out  of  our  side  road  at  a  moderate  pace,  as  if  we 
were  on  an  errand  of  our  own,  and  found  ourselves 
just  half-way  between  the  leader  and  his  men.  I 
began  to  wonder  what  was  to  be  the  next  move ;  and 
then,  suddenly  it  was  all  over.  Swynnerton  pushed 
on,  leaving  us  between  himself  and  the  servants 
behind:  he  overtook  Ipstones  almost  directly  and 
called  his  name.  Ipstones  looked  round  over  his 
right  shoulder  and  began  to  pull  up ;  Swynnerton 
crossed  behind  him  to  the  left  side  of  the  road;  at 
the  same  moment  he  pulled  out  his  sword,  and 
when  Ipstones  laid  his  hand  on  his  own  hilt  Swyn- 
nerton drove  at  him :  he  took  him  full  under  the 
left  arm,  just  as  his  own  point  was  clearing  the 
scabbard.  We  were  level  with  them  in  a  moment, 
not  knowing  quite  what  had  happened,  though  we 
guessed  it  all  from  what  we  could  see  against  the 
sky  :  as  we  came  up  to  Swynnerton  the  other  horse 


96  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

turned  off  to  the  right,  and  the  rider  fell  from  his 
saddle  on  to  the  strip  of  grass  by  the  roadside.  We 
all  three  wheeled  round  and  sat  there  to  see  what 
was  going  on :  Ipstones'  men  had  halted  in  a  line 
on  the  other  side,  and  two  of  them  had  dismounted 
to  lift  him  up.  They  propped  him  with  his  back 
against  a  bush  and  began  to  search  for  the  wound : 
the  little  light  there  was  was  behind  us,  and  we 
could  see  them  better  than  they  could  see  us.  The 
other  men  seemed  to  be  opening  saddle-bags  for 
things  to  make  a  bandage :  they  none  of  them  offered 
to  attack  us,  but  the  nearest  fellow,  who  was  kneel- 
ing by  his  master,  said  in  a  voice  of  dreadful 
indignation  and  hate,  'What  sort  of  fighting  do 
you  call  that?'  We  didn't  answer,  but  Swynnerton 
leaned  over  and  jerked  the  dying  man's  sword  to- 
wards them  with  the  point  of  his  own.  The  man 
took  it  up  and  drew  the  blade  through  the  fingers 
of  his  left  hand.  Then  he  spoke  even  more  bitter- 
ly, '  Ay  !  but  it's  a  clean  one,  this  ! '  I  can't  tell  you 
how  miserable  I  felt  when  I  heard  those  words :  I 
have  never  forgotten  them.  I  felt  that  the  whole 
world  must  be  hating  us  in  the  same  way ;  and 
I  must  have  been  unconsciously  turning  to  go,  for 
Swynnerton  suddenly  caught  my  rein  and  held  it: 
he  hooked  Savage's,  too,  with  his  sword  hand,  and 
we  stayed  there  without  a  word.  At  last  the  gasp- 
ing stopped,  and  I  could  see  that  Ipstones  was  sink- 
ing slowly  down.  Then  Swynnerton  pushed  his 
horse  in  front  of  mine,  and  dragged   Savage  round 


TALES   OF   THE    NIGHT.  97 

with  him  so  as  to  wheel  the  three  of  us  at  once: 
we  went  off  at  a  gallop,  and  no  one  spoke  until 
we  reached  the  inn  we  had  started  from.  There  was 
a  bright  light  in  the  window  now,  and  the  house 
looked  so  quiet  and  full  of  comfort  that  it  seemed 
as  if  we  had  only  to  go  in  and  everything  could 
be  put  back  as  it  was  in  the  morning.  But  when 
I  drew  up,  Swynnerton  caught  my  rein  again — he 
must  have  been  on  the  look-out — and  said,  'Come 
on,  you  fool ! '  and  we  rode  on,  down  one  black  lane 
after  another,  till  I  was  utterly  lost." 

He  stopped  abruptly :  the  more  dreadful  the  story 
became  the  more  ineffectually  he  seemed  to  be  tell- 
ing it :  in  the  effort  to  convey  the  feeling  of  horror 
which  was  impressed  upon  his  own  mind,  his  voice 
had  become  strained  and  toneless. 

"It  is  no  use  going  on,"  he  said,  "you  know  it 
all  now." 

Nicholas  raised  himself  from  the  wall  on  which 
he  had  been  leaning,  and  turned  towards  his 
companion. 

"Very  much  alike,  the  two  stories,  aren't  they?" 
He  spoke  in  a  brisk,  almost  cheerful  voice. 

"It  is  ghastly,"  replied  John. 

"It  is,  rather,"  said  Nicholas,  "but  I  think  you 
take  an  unreasonable  view  of  it,  all  the  same, — 
a  view  which  you  would  find  it  very  difficult  to 
defend." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  John,  astonished 
and  almost  indignant. 

G 


98  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

"  Well,  take  Swynnerton's  case,"  replied  Nicholas 
in  the  same  tone  of  perfect  simplicity.  "  What 
fault  do  you  find  with  him?  He  kills  his  enemy, 
you  say,  on  a  dark  and  lonely  road,  without  giving 
him  a  word  of  warning  or  any  chance  of  defending 
himself.  Now  you  see  something  cowardly  in  that, 
I  imagine?" 

"So  do  you,"  retorted  John. 

"Not  at  all:  Swynnerton  is  a  man  of  principle, 
and  his  courage  is  beyond  question,  as  you  know 
very  well.  It  is  your  own  weakness  that  makes 
you  disloyal  to  your  friend.  Look  straight  at  the 
question  as  it  came  before  him :  he  must  get  this 
divorce :  to  do  that,  he  must  make  his  bargain  with 
Savage:  the  only  way  in  which  he  could  repay 
Savage  was  by  removing  Ipstones:  the  fairer  the 
fight  the  greater  the  risk  of  failure:  murder  was 
the  only  effective  and  certain  method." 

"In  other  words,"  said  John,  "if  you  desire  the 
end  you  desire  the  means,  especially  when  there  is 
only  one  way  open.  But  you  may  give  up  the  end, 
if  the  means  are  impossible." 

"Give  up?"  said  the  quiet  reasonable  voice. 
"You  forget.  Do  you  seriously  mean  that  a  man 
is  to  give  up,  for  extraneous  considerations,  his 
own  will,  the  very  essence  of  his  life  as  man, 
the  quality  by  which  his  place  in  the  world  is 
determined  and  maintained?  Once  admit  that  pos- 
sibility and  you  are  defeated  from  the  beginning: 


TALES   OF  THE   NIGHT.  99 

there  is  no  los<*  to  which  you  will  not  submit,  no 
competitor  to  whom  you  will  not  surrender." 

John  knew  his  friend  too  well  to  mistake  his 
meaning,  however  paradoxically  he  might  express 
it:  he  knew  also  that  in  a  life -long  conversation 
like  theirs  there  could  be  no  rounded  and  satisfying 
conclusions. 

"I'm  too  tired  to  think  it  out  now,"  he  said; 
"let  us  go  to  bed." 

They  walked  slowly  to  the  house :  at  the  door 
they  halted  again. 

"There's  one  thing,"  said  John;  "we  were  going 
a  bit  off  the  main  track.  It  was  chiefly  revenge 
that  Swynnerton  wanted,  and  Huntingdon  was 
thinking  of  nothing  else." 

"No  matter,"  replied  the  other.  "Revenge,  too, 
is  something  that  we  owe  to  our  purpose.  It  is 
the  impulse  to  remove  what  has  once  thwarted 
us  and  may  thwart  us  again :  the  desire  to  restore 
the  humiliated  will — in  the  common  phrase,  to  get 
back  our  own.     You  could  not  give  up  revenge." 

"  Nicholas ! " 

"  Vory  well :  then  you  will  be  putting  back  the 
clock  and  returning  from  the  Age  of  Power  to 
the  Age  of  Obligation." 

"You  don't  advise  me,"  said  John. 

"I?  I  am  one  of  the  cowards,  the  defeated: 
I  surrendered  long  ago,  and  my  place  is  in  my 
cell.     I  walk  in  terror  till  I  am  there  again." 


100  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 


XVIII. 

John  woke  next  morning  in  a  very  different  mood. 
It  would  not  be  fair  to  say  that  he  had  forgotten 
the  story  which  Nicholas  had  wrung  from  him  in 
the  hour  of  darkness,  but  it  had  certainly  for  the 
time  receded  into  the  background  of  his  thoughts. 
It  was  really  with  the  future  rather  than  the  past 
that  his  conscience  was  mainly  concerned  :  he  dreaded 
not  so  much  the  memory  of  a  crime  already  com- 
mitted as  the  possibility  that  he  might  be  led  to 
take  part  in  acts  of  the  same  kind  in  the  struggle 
which  he  knew  was  coming  nearer  every  day.  To 
that  struggle  he  actually  looked  forward, — in  spite 
of  all  that  Nicholas  had  been  saying  for  months 
past  he  longed  to  put  into  blows  the  loyalty  which 
he  had  no  other  way  of  expressing,  —  but  the 
natural  chivalry  of  his  character  and  his  thirst  for 
honourable  distinction  demanded  a  fight  against 
odds  and  the  fairest  of  tactics.  If  he  held  to  those 
conditions,  as  he  was  determined  to  do,  he  need 
not  trouble  himself  so  much  for  the  present  about 
the  character  or  antecedents  of  those  with  whom  he 
was  forced  to  associate.  It  was,  moreover,  becom- 
ing more  and  more  probable  that  his  own  young 
lord  would  shortly  take  an  important  place  in  the 
inner  council  of  the  king's  party,  and  though  he 
knew    himself    to    be    the    stronger    character     he 


STEALING  A   MARCH.  101 

felt  that  to  have  such  a  friend  in  some  sort  de- 
pending upon  him  would  be  an  additional  safeguard 
and  support  to  his  own  resolve. 

These  were  good  reasons,  if  he  had  been  in  need 
of  reasons,  for  giving  himself  up  to  the  free 
enjoyment  of  another  summer's  day,  and  his 
first  waking  thought  was  all  of  pleasures  to 
come. 

He  had  promised  that  his  party  should  leave 
the  moor  for  the  Inglebys;  it  was  fortunate  that 
Tom  had  himself  been  seized  with  the  same  idea, 
or  the  undertaking  might  have  proved  a  difficult 
one  to  fulfil,  but  the  way  was  now  clear  for  his 
second  move.  He  had  been  interested  in  the  two 
archers,  and  without  knowing  why  or  how  much 
he  wished  it,  he  saw  an  opportunity  of  renewing 
the  acquaintance  so  oddly  made  the  evening  before. 
The  Stafford  feud  loomed  vaguely  in  his  mind  as 
the  cause  of  his  interest;  but  if  he  had  looked 
more  closely  he  would  have  seen  that  his  thought 
actually  reflected  not  the  slender  grace  of  Lady 
Joan  but  the  tall  angry  goddess  of  the  grey  eyes, 
who  had  lashed  and  healed  him  with  a  touch  un- 
like any  he  had  known. 

His  first  care  was  to  inquire  what  the  rest  of 
the  party  were  planning.  Edmund  was  starting 
with  the  falconer  to  make  purchases  in  Northaller- 
ton. Nicholas  was  reading  in  the  garden :  either 
of  them  would  be  glad  of  his  company  or,  evi- 
dently, quite  content   without  it.      Tom  had   taken 


102  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

a  hasty  breakfast  and  gone  out,  —  down  the  road, 
said  Edmund  vaguely.  John  was  master  of  himself 
and  his  opportunity. 

He,  too,  started  by  strolling  down  the  road,  with 
an  air  of  indecision;  but  he  soon  strayed  off  into 
the  fields  on  the  right,  and  in  ten  minutes  was 
exactly  opposite  the  gap  in  the  hedge  through 
which  he  had  seen  that  volley  discharged  twelve 
hours  ago.  The  ladies  had  forgotten  to  pick  up 
their  arrows :  if  he  could  find  them,  as  he  had 
no  doubt  of  doing,  they  would  serve  him  as  an 
excuse  for  the  meeting  on  which  he  had  set  his 
heart. 

He  walked  up  the  field  towards  the  wood  with- 
out finding  anything :  climbed  over  the  fence  and 
placed  himself  in  the  position  of  the  archers,  marked 
the  line  of  their  shot  and  followed  it  up  with  ex- 
treme care.  Thirty  paces — nothing ;  fifty — nothing ; 
a  hundred  —  surely  they  could  not  have  chanced 
their  arrows  on  so  long  a  flight,  especially  at  dusk. 
At  last,  after  covering  the  whole  ground  half  a 
dozen  times,  he  decided  that  some  of  the  farm 
people  must  have  been  before  him  ;  and  then  only 
did  he  recollect  that  on  his  first  approach  he  had 
seen,  while  lifting  his  head  for  a  moment  to  look 
for  the  gap,  a  man's  figure  moving  along  the 
woodland  path  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge. 
"Whoever  it  might  have  been  it  was  far  too  late 
to  think  of  overtaking  him  now,  and  as  John 
climbed   once   more    through   the   fence   and  began 


STEALING   A   MARCH.  103 

to  walk  the  green  and  gold  arcade  of  the  sylvan 
cloister,  he  fell  to  devising  some  other  excuse  which 
would  facilitate  his  second  intrusion  into  Diana's 
presence.  Several  more  or  less  happy  speeches  oc- 
curred to  him  as  he  passed  along  the  woodside, 
and  filled  his  mind  while  he  climbed  the  steep  slope 
of  the  hill  down  which  Nicholas  had  led  him  so 
breathlessly  the  day  before ;  but  his  thoughts  were 
unusually  wayward  this  morning,  and  he  had  not 
yet  decided,  when  he  reached  the  terrace  walk  at 
the  top,  behind  which  pretext  he  really  meant  to 
shelter  his  confusion. 

Now  he  was  once  more  at  the  spot  where  he 
had  sat  with  Nicholas:  once  more  Arncliffe  lay 
beneath  him,  with  the  morning  shadows  drawing 
in  beneath  the  wall  of  the  moated  garden ;  but 
beautiful  as  it  was,  he  turned  his  back  on  the 
westward  view,  and  made  for  the  long  roll  of  the 
moor  on  the  reverse  slope  of  the  ridge. 

Here,  too,  he  saw  no  trace  of  those  for  whom 
he  was  looking;  until  at  last,  moving  knee -deep 
through  the  sea  of  heather,  he  came  to  a  place 
where  the  plateau  broke  suddenly  away  downhill. 
There,  not  ten  yards  below  him,  was  all  that  he 
sought  —  and  more :  to  the  left  stood  a  patient 
group  of  ponies,  falconers,  and  keepers;  to  the 
right,  reclining  and  almost  sunken  among  the 
purple  billows,  lay  the  huntress  maids.  Both  were 
unaware  of  his  approach,  for  both  were  laughing 
quietly,    with    kind    eyes    shining    upon    a    young 


104  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

man  who  occupied  a  convenient  boulder  seat  op- 
posite to  them. 

"  Tom  ! " 

The  young  man  did  not  hear  the  exclamation : 
he  was  talking  gaily,  and  in  his  right  hand  he 
grasped  two  bird -bolts,  which  were  evidently  fur- 
nishing the  subject  of  his  discourse. 


XIX 

"Here  they  are,"  he  was  saying  as  John  ap- 
proached, "and  there  he  is,"  he  added,  brandishing 
the  arrows  in  one  hand  while  with  the  other  he 
pointed  at  his   astonished  squire. 

John  took  off  his  cap  in  silence:  he  had  not  a 
word  to  say,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  among  total 
strangers.  The  ladies  were  not  the  ladies  he  had 
met  overnight,  though  they  were  very  like  them, 
and  Tom  was  entirely  changed  from  any  Tom  he 
had  ever  known  before.  This  was  neither  his  pupil 
nor  his  lord,  but  a  sprightly  young  man  with  a 
ready  manner  and  a  fluent  tongue,  master  of  the 
situation,  which  indeed  he  seemed  to  have  created, 
pleased  with  himself  and  pleasing  to  those  who 
listened  to  him. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  he  said,  bowing  in  response 
to  John.      "You   are  evidently  a  stranger  in  these 


stutterville's  holiday.  105 

parts:  do  you  care  about  sport?  Will  you  join 
us?  Or  are  you  looking  for  something  you  have 
lost?     No?  then  I  insist;  let  us  introduce  ourselves." 

He  turned  to  the  ladies,  who  followed  his  rattlo 
with  unconcealed  enjoyment.  "This,"  he  said, 
waving  the  arrows  at  the  taller  of  them,  "is 
our  hostess,  Margot,  the  daughter  of  Malvoisin,  a 
neighbouring  magnate  with  an  expressive  name. 
This  is  her  distinguished  guest,  the  Lady  Bienvenue 
L'Estrange;  and  my  brother  and  I — he  is  not  here 
just  now — are  known  as  the  Stuttervilles :  we  owe 
the  appellation  partly  to  our  ancestors  and  partly 
to  the  elegant  taste  of  the  Demoiselle  de  Malvoisin 
in  her  younger  days.  It  commemorates,  I  under- 
stand, a  personal  defect." 

"No,  no,"  laughed  Margot,  "a  personal  charm." 

"Ah!"  replied  the  Stutterville  gentleman,  "the 
times  are  changed  for  the  better ;  we  used  to 
smart  five  years  ago  for  what  is  now  a  charm." 
He  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  bowed. 

Margot  laughed.  "But  the  charm,"  said  her 
friend,  turning  to  her,  "is  one  which  apparently 
he  does  not  possess." 

"Oh,  I  will  p-p-practise,"  said  Tom  quickly. 
The  Lady  Bienvenue  had  not  spoken  directly  to 
him,  nor  did  he  look  at  her  while  he  replied ; 
but  they  seemed  to  interest  each  other,  John 
thought,  and  Tom  was  certainly  in  the  right  vein: 
he  had  made  an  astonishing  advance  in  a  very 
short    time,   for    this  lady  was    not,   like    the  other, 


106  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

an  old  friend  or  enemy  of  childish  days.  On  the 
contrary  she  was — but  the  tragic  story  that  had 
seemed  so  real  at  midnight  under  the  cold  moon 
had  now  no  more  terror  in  it  than  any  other 
ancient  tale  of  the  dead  centuries;  reality  was 
here,  where  the  warm  sun  lulled  every  feeling  but 
those  of  youth  and  kindliness,  and  something  sang 
in  the  blood  with  a  music  like  that  of  the  bees 
that  hummed  in  myriads  along  the  heather. 

"You  have  not  told  us  your  name,  sir,"  said  the 
Lady  Bienvenue.  She  had  neither  Margot's  stature 
nor  her  rich  voice,  but  John  felt  instantly,  as  she 
spoke  to  him  for  the  first  time,  that  he  was  re- 
ceiving a  command.  Her  small  face  with  its  dark- 
pencilled  eyebrows  and  clear-cut  features  seemed  to 
express  a  character  of  imperious  refinement,  and  he 
hesitated  to  reply,  feeling  his  wit  too  clumsy  for 
what  was  demanded  of  him. 

"My  lord,"  he  began  tentatively,  looking  to- 
wards Tom. 

"You  mistake,"  said  that  young  gentleman,  "there 
are  no  lords  here:  my  name  is  Stutterville,  plain 
Thomelin  Stutterville ;  and  now  I  seem  to  remember 
you.  Are  you  not  John  Armiger,  and  haven't  I 
seen  you  going  about  in  the  oompany  of  a  monk? 
By  the  way,  were  you  with  him  when  he  inter- 
rupted these  ladies  out  shooting  yesterday  ?  " 

John  rebelled  at  this  :  the  jest  was  a  shameless  one. 

"That  was  not  the  first  or  the  worst  interruption 
they  had  to  complain  of,"  he  said. 


stutterville's  holiday.  107 

"  So  it  appears,"  replied  Tom,  quite  unabashed ; 
"  the  young  Hollands  seem  to  be  staying  here,  with 
a  squire  who  rather  magnifies  his  office ;  but  I  under- 
stand that  they  do  not  intend  to  press  their  claim." 

"Their  father  will  be  interested  to  hear  that," 
retorted  John. 

"He  will  not  hear  it,"  said  the  other, — "no  one 
will  venture  to  tell  him." 

The  Lady  Bienvenue  smiled  serenely,  but  Marmot's 
brow  clouded  and  she  made  a  diversion  by  spring- 
ing up. 

"  Shall  we  make  a  start  ? "  she  asked ;  "  we  are 
losing  the  day." 

The  keepers  were  called,  the  ladies  mounted,  and 
the  sport  began.  It  was  not  very  successful :  the 
moor  belonging  to  this  manor  was  not  a  large  one, 
though  it  formed  part  of  an  immense  extent  of 
heather  and  bracken,  rolling  away  to  the  east  over 
the  Cleveland  Hills.  Part  of  the  ground  had  been 
disturbed  the  day  before,  and  the  ArnelifFe  end, 
though  it  was  better  stocked  and  less  steep  than 
the  rest,  was  deeper  in  heather  and  more  marshy  at 
the  bottom,  so  that  the  ponies  had  no  easy  time  of 
it,  and  were  often  quite  unable  to  follow  a  good 
flight.  But  the  day  was  perfect  and  the  party  very 
conveniently  balanced — Stutterville  attending  on  the 
Lady  Bienvenue  and  Margot  falling  to  John's  share 
— so  that  all  went  well,  and  when  the  whole  company 
climbed  the  slope  again  at  noon  and  sat  down  to 
the   dinner    which    was    waiting   for   them,    nothing 


108  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

was  heard  but  fervent,  if  commonplace,  expressions 
of  satisfaction. 

They  sat  this  time  in  a  hollow  among  the  high 
bracken,'  out  of  which  Margot  made  four  wide- 
brimmed  hats. 

"We  are  almost  unrecognisable,"  said  Tom,  as  he 
fitted  one  on  and  looked  at  the  others. 

"Very  true,"  replied  John;  "I  doubt  if  our  best 
friends  would  know  us." 

Margot  gave  him  a  quick  glance  of  understanding, 
but  Tom  ignored  the  remark.  He  was  settling  him- 
self very  comfortably  in  a  kind  of  cushioned  seat 
among  the  heather  tufts. 

"This  is  about  as  good  a  day  as  I  have  ever 
seen,"  he  said. 

"That,  too,  may  prove  to  be  very  true,"  thought 
John :  this  time  he  did  not  say  it  aloud,  for  Margot's 
grey  eyes  were  already  speaking  to  his,  and  a  very 
faint  smile  lit  them  for  a  moment.  She  looked  away 
and  a  cloud  followed  :  John  wondered  whether  she 
was  really  thinking  his  thoughts,  which  included  a 
considerable  amount  of  misgiving.  The  company 
was  well  met,  but  the  future  lay  in  harder  hands 
than  theirs :  it  might  be  wise  not  to  run  on  too  fast. 

"  I  don't  see,"  remarked  Tom,  looking  up  into  the 
cloudless  sky,  "why  we  shouldn't  do  this  every  day." 

The  Lady  Bien venue  left  the  reply  to  her  hostess. 
Margot  laughed  a  little  consciously. 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  she  said ;  "  I'm  afraid  I  do.  I  know 
thiti  moor  better   than  you.     After  these  two  days 


stutterville's  holiday.  109 

there  will  be  nothing  on  it  till  some  kind  neighbour 
has  put  the  birds  back  again.  Be«ides,"  she  added, 
"you  forget  you  are  engaged  to  the  Colvilles  for 
to-morrow." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  Tom  in  great 
surprise. 

Margot  smiled  with  mischievous  enjoyment.  "I 
know  because  they  told  me  so." 

"  Are  you  going,  too  ?  " 

She  laughed  outright.  "Oh,  no!  they  have  more 
tact  than  that :  they  said  the  Hollands  would  be 
there,  and  asked  us  to  come  any  other  day  we  liked. 
You  see  they  know  nothing  of  our  recent  acquaint- 
ances the  Stuttervilles." 

"  Recent ! "  said  Tom  indignantly.  "  I'll  see  Colville 
myself;  what  has  the  Hollands'  business  to  do  with 
him?" 

At  this  moment  a  high  falsetto  shout  was  heard : 
it  was  the  keeper  hallooing  in  answer  to  some  one 
on  the  ridge  above.  Margot  rose  to  ask  what  the 
noise  meant,  and  John  sprang  up  to  follow  her. 

"  It  is  your  friend,"  she  said,  turning  to  him  as  he 
scrambled  up  out  of  the  hollow :  and  there  in  fact 
was  the  massive  figure  of  Nicholas,  white  against 
the  high  line  of  the  wood,  and  beginning  to  move 
towards  them  over  the  quivering  purple  of  the  long 
sun- burnt  slope. 


110  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 


XX. 

John's  first  thought  was  one  of  fear :  some  accident 
must  have  happened  to  Edmund.  No  other  reason 
that  he  could  think  of  would  have  hurried  Nicholas 
out  to  follow  them  so  far  at  the  hottest  time  of 
the  day,  when  an  hour  or  two  more  would  have 
brought  them  home  to  him  in  the  ordinary  course. 
Something  of  the  same  kind  was  no  doubt  passing 
through  Tom's  mind,  too :  his  light  manner  was 
gone,  and  after  a  moment's  reflection  he  turned 
away  with  a  hasty  word  of  excuse  and  started  up 
the  hill  to  meet  Nicholas.  He  walked  quickly,  with 
his  head  bent ;  Lady  Joan  looked  after  him  with  un- 
concealed sympathy.  In  this  mood  her  face  lost  the 
air  of  command  and  took  on  an  expression  of  child- 
like gentleness.  It  was  not  only  John  who  was 
touched  by  her  look ;  he  saw  Margot's  eyes  dwell  on 
her  for  an  instant  with  adoring  tenderness,  and  then 
glance  round  at  him  as  if  to  see  whether  he,  too, 
knew  what  beauty  was. 

They  all  three  watched  in  silence — patiently  at 
first,  while  Tom  climbed  the  hill  and  Nicholas  came 
more  slowly  down  it :  impatiently  enough  after- 
wards, when  the  meeting  was  accomplished  and 
Tom  appeared  to  be  asking  one  question  after 
another  without  thinking  to  relieve  their  anxiety. 

At   last  he  recollected  them,   turned,  and  waved 


THE    LINE    OP   DIVISION.  Ill 

his  hand,  shouting  :  "  It's  all  right ;  there's  nothing 
the  matter,"  and  he  and  the  monk  came  down  the 
slope  together,  still  talking  earnestly. 

"  A  letter  from  my  father,"  he  called  out  again, 
as  he  drew  nearer,  and  added  when  he  reached  the 
little  camp,  "  An  end  to  our  holiday :  we  must  go 
south  to-morrow." 

A  feeling  of  constraint  gripped  the  whole  party 
at  once.  The  happy  hour  of  romance  and  irre- 
sponsibility was  over :  the  gay  and  gallant  youth 
named  Stutterville  had  vanished,  and  down  the 
flowery  path  by  which  he  had  gone  from  them 
another  had  come,  a  grave  and  grown  man,  a 
Holland,  one  about  whose  affairs  they  could  ask 
no  questions,  and  to  whom  they  could  offer  no 
sympathy :  even  John  was  tongue  -  tied  in  the 
presence  of  the  two  girls.  Girls  they  were  now : 
for  the  breath  from  the  outer  world,  which  had 
summoned  their  friend  of  a  moment  since  to  join 
the  business  of  men,  seemed  to  have  taken  from 
them  half  their  power  and  confidence,  and  to  have 
left  them  pathetically  young  and  helpless.  John 
looked  at  them  with  an  impulse  of  protection,  and 
then  remembered  that  henceforward  he  belonged 
once  more  to  the  hostile  party,  and  was,  moreover, 
not  in  a  position  to  think  of  protecting  anybody. 

"I  think,"  said  Tom  to  him,  in  the  tone  of  one 
making  a  decision,  "that  you  had  better  go  on 
home  at  once  with  Nicholas :  there  will  be  a  good 
many  things  to  do." 


112  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Lady  Joar>,  without  looking 
at  her  friend,  "it  is  time  we  were  going,  too." 

Margot  and  John  fell  behind  the  others  as  they 
moved  off.  "  It  doesn't  take  iong,  does  it,"  she 
said,  "to  turn  you  and  me  into  servants  again?" 
She  nodded  towards  the  mistress  who  had  been 
her  equal  and  her  guest  a  moment  ago. 

"We  need  not  grudge  them  that,"  John  replied; 
"the  same  change  turns  them  back  into  enemies." 

"  Does  it  ?  "  she  asked,  and  then  added,  almost  to 
herself,  "I  wonder." 

John  wished  he  knew  which  way  her  thought 
was  inclining.  "Perhaps,"  he  said,  "you  have  not 
heard  the  whole  story  ?  " 

The  grey  eyes  looked  reproachfully  at  him.  "The 
story?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "You  don't  wish 
to  keep  that  alive  ?  " 

"How  could  you  think  it?"  he  replied.  "We 
should  never  meet  again." 

"To  be  quite  frank,"  she  said,  "do  you  see  how 
they  are  to  meet  again?" 

"I  do  not;  but — to  be  quite  frank — I  intend 
that  they  shall." 

"I  wonder  if  you  are  right." 

He  was  surprised  :  her  doubt  was  evidently  serious. 
"Surely  you  hate  these  factions?"  he  asked. 

"The  story  is  an  old  one,"  she  replied,  "it  ought 
to  have  been  forgotten  long  ago :  but  I  am  afraid 
the  division  goes  deeper  than  that." 


THE    LTNE    OP  DIVISION.  113 

"Deeper?" — the  horror  of  last  night  was  in  his 
voice. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  quick  flash  of  sym- 
pathetic approval. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  but  I  am  right,  too. 
A  crime  may  be  repented,  or  forgiven,  a  difference 
of  principle  cannot." 

He  thought  for  a  moment,  then  stopped  short 
and  turned  to  face  her,  with  an  exclamation  of 
dismay. 

"No,"  she  said,  "don't  ask  me — I  was  dreaming: 
it  is  just  a  dream  I  have  at  times,  that  a  horrible 
choice  must  be  made  between  wronging  one  man 
or  a  whole  nation.  It  is  a  nightmare,"  she  went 
on,  looking  earnestly  at  him,  "  and  I  am  the  only 
dreamer  who  suffers  from  it — remember  that." 

"I  understand,"  said  John,  and  they  walked  on 
again.  But  there  came  into  his  mind  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  monk's  words :  Nicholas,  too,  was  the 
king's  man  only  "so  long  as  he  holds  of  his  over- 
lard."     He  spoke  his  thought  aloud. 

"There  are  others  who  are  troubled  by  that 
nightmare." 

"Not  you?"  she  cried,  with  unmistakable  appre- 
hension in  her  voice. 

"No,   certainly  not,"   he   answered  quickly;  "but 

you  speak  as  if Would  you  not  wish  me  to 

agree  with  you  ?  " 

"To   hesitate,    to    ohange,    to    betray?      When   I 

H 


114  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

dream  that  you  are  all  wrong,  my  only  comfort  is 
to  feel  that  you  believe  yourselves  right." 

"Wj  do,"  said  John  eagerly.  "I  should  like  to 
argue  it  with  you." 

She  smiled  faintly  and  shook  her  head.  "No, 
one  can't  argue  about  such  things." 

"Then  what  can  we  do?" 

"We  can  feel  about  them,  and  we  can  fight — if 
it  comes  to  that." 

"I  don't  think  it  will  come  to  that — for  us  at 
any  rate ; "  he  pointed  across  the  ridge,  on  which 
they  were  now  walking,  to  the  terrace-path  where 
Lady  Joan  was  waiting  for  her,  and  Tom  was  pro- 
longing his  farewell. 

Margot's  eyes  grew  soft  as  she  looked.  The 
cloud  came  back  when  she  turned  to  him  again. 
"  You  have  forgotten  what  I  was  saying :  a  quarrel 
can  be  ended,  but  not  a  cause.  We  are  still  on 
opposite  sides." 

This  was  not  exactly  what  John  wished  at 
parting :  but  there  was  comfort  in  it,  too.  As  he 
went  silently  down  the  hill,  while  Tom  developed 
his  conjectures  upon  the  meaning  of  their  move,  he 
realised  the  service  this  girl  had  done  him.  His 
eyes  had  been  filled  to  confusion  with  the  splendours 
and  cruelties  of  the  New  June :  he  could  now  look 
beyond  them — she  had  given  him  back  the  power 
to  see  the  king. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  DE  VERB.  115 


XXI. 

The  ceremony  for  which  King  Richard  was  gather- 
ing his  partisans  together  was  a  singular  one, 
characteristic  of  him  and  of  no  other  monarch  in 
our  history.  It  was  now  seven  years  since  the 
most  intimate  and  trusted  companion  of  his  youth, 
Robert  de  Vere,  had  been  hunted  from  the  king- 
dom by  Gloucester's  faction:  it  was  three  since  he 
had  died  in  exile.  That  Richard  should  still  re- 
member his  dead  friend  was  surprising  only  to  those 
who  habitually  misunderstood  him  :  they  refused  to 
believe  that  a  warm  heart  could  beat  under  so 
many  fantastic  changes  of  apparel,  or  that  a 
constant  and  deadly  purpose  could  be  the  hidden 
warp  upon  which  the  ever -varying  moods  they 
saw  were  woven.  But  even  to  his  nearest  asso- 
ciates the  method  of  this  commemoration  was 
unexpected,  and  the  significance  of  it  came  as  a 
revelation. 

De  Vere  had  been  buried  in  Louvain,  where  he 
died;  but  by  Richard's  order  the  body  had  been 
secretly  embalmed,  and  now,  when  he  judged  that 
his  time  had  come,  the  king  had  decreed  to  the 
dead  the  public  honours  so  long  over-due.  If  he 
could  not  revoke  death,  he  could  at  least  annul 
the  years  —  the  most  high,  mighty,  and  puissant 
Prince,  Robert,  Earl  of  Oxford,  Marquis  of  Dublin, 


116  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

and  Duke  of  Ireland,  should  lie  in  state,  as  if  he 
had  but  yesterday  departed  out  of  this  transitory 
life,  and  be  laid  to  rest  among  his  ancestors,  as 
though  he  had  never  for  a  moment  stooped  his 
pride  or  fled  from  the  country  of  his  birth.  It 
was  not  for  the  first  or  the  last  time  that  Richard 
so  desired  to  call  back  yesterday. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  the  funeral 
procession  began  to  move  through  the  little  town 
of  Earl's  Colne :  the  September  moon  had  set,  but 
the  sky  was  bright  with  stars :  the  streets  were 
full  of  a  multitude  of  shadows,  some  motionless, 
some  drifting  from  darkness  to  darkness,  but  all 
silent  as  the  inhabitants  of  a  voiceless  world. 
Through  the  centre  of  the  crowd,  two  and  two, 
two  and  two,  in  a  seemingly  endless  line,  wound 
the  train  of  mourners,  visible  only  as  a  march  of 
phantoms,  for  every  one  of  them  was  covered  from 
head  to  foot  with  a  single  long  black  robe,  the 
hood  of  which  was  drawn  so  far  forward  as  to 
bury  the  face  entirely  out  of  sight. 

The  space  in  front  of  the  Priory  was  dear, 
and  guarded  by  a  company  of  archers  :  they,  too, 
were  all  in  black,  and  stood  in  a  rigid  square  as 
motionless  as  the  stone  figures  upon  a  reredos. 
Above  them,  minute  by  minute,  a  single  bell 
clanged  with  a  note  of  cold  and  lonely  remem- 
brance. But  now  the  head  of  the  procession  had 
reached  the  west  door :  the  tolling  ceased,  and 
when  John  in  his  turn  drew  near  to  enter,  the  De 


THE  BURIAL  OP  DE  VERE.  117 

Profundis  was  already  being  chanted  within.  He 
passed  slowly  up  the  sombre  nave,  where  hang- 
ing lamps  cast  shadows  of  strange  forms  among 
the  arches,  and  seemed  rather  to  carve  than  to 
dissipate  the  solid  darkness ;  but  the  choir  was 
bright  with  long  lines  of  candles,  and  before  the 
high  altar  stood  the  bier  in  an  island  of  light. 
Below  it  was  an  open  grave ;  at  one  side  of  the 
grave  knelt  the  king,  all  in  black,  but  unhooded, 
and  wearing  a  gold  Grown;  at  the  other  side, 
opposite  to  him,  and  also  kneeling,  was  his  nephew, 
the  young  Lord  Thomas  Holland,  in  full  armour, 
with  a  long  white  mantle  floating  backwards  from 
his  shoulders. 

The  choir  stalls,  in  the  lowest  of  which  John  was 
placed,  had  been  set  aside  for  the  mourners  who 
headed  the  procession :  rank  and  wealth  were  theirs, 
no  doubt,  but  in  this  house  of  the  dead  there  was 
nothing  but  their  place  to  distinguish  them  from 
the  crowd  beyond  the  screen ;  all  alike  were  black- 
robed,  veiled,  and  silent.  The  office  was  sung  by 
an  unseen  choir,  placed  behind  curtains  under  the 
walls  of  the  chancel;  the  voices  were  those  of  men, 
and  it  might  have  seemed  easy  to  believe  that  they 
alone  were  living,  and  the  rest  of  the  churoh  filled 
with  the  ghosts  of  a  departed  generation.  But 
John  was  conscious  of  a  very  different  impression, 
which  grew  more  and  more  strongly  upon  him  as 
the  long  service  proceeded.  He  knew  as  he  looked 
around  him  that  among   this   silent  and  indistiug- 


118  SHADOWS   BEFORE    DAWN. 

uishable  company,  though  they  were  clothed  with 
garments  of  death  and  stood  with  their  feet  among 
tombs,  there  was  beating  a  life  that  was  more 
and  not  less  full  than  the  life  of  the  daylight 
world.  If  they  had  no  voices  of  their  own,  it  was 
because  a  single  voice,  a  single  gesture,  could  speak 
for  them  all :  if  they  had  merged  their  individu- 
ality under  this  strange  sameness  of  apparel,  it 
was  to  symbolise  the  unity  of  the  feeling  which 
had  brought  them  there.  What,  then,  was  that 
feeling?  —  for  he  knew,  too,  with  a  continually 
deepening  certainty,  that  there  was  something  more 
between  these  sombre  figures  than  a  community 
of  sorrow :  there  was  also  an  intense  oneness  of 
expectation.  What  was  the  secret  prayer  upon 
these  dumb  lips?  For  what  were  they  looking, 
these  veiled  eyes  that  watched  an  open  grave? 
He  could  not  answer,  though  he  knew  that  he 
himself  was  a  sharer  in  their  hope ;  a  vague  dread 
haunted  him  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
spirit  more  terrible  than  death :  evil  and  good 
it  seemed  to  be  at  once,  and  he  feared  it,  though 
he  longed  for  the  moment  of  its  manifestation. 

The  night  wore  slowly  away :  after  the  Miserere 
came  the  solemn  Responsory :  after  the  Responsory 
the  Matins  for  the  Dead,  with  Nocturnes  and 
Lauds :  after  the  Benedictus  the  Antiphon  of  the 
Resurrection,  the  Prayer  for  Absolution,  and  the 
Celebration  of  the  Mass.  The  candles  were  burn- 
ing   dim :    the    air    of    the    church    was    cold    and 


THE  BURIAL  OP  DE  VERE.  119 

earthy,    but   the   pulse  of   expectation    was    beating 
higher  and  higher. 

"  Enter  not  into  judgment,"  prayed  the  Archbishop, 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bier ;  and  a  long  silence 
followed  the  Amen.  Then,  like  a  ray  of  pure  white 
light,  a  single  voice  of  extraordinary  power  and 
beauty  pierced  the  stillness  of  the  shadows.  "Libera 
me,  Domine"  it  sang,  ude  morte  eterna,"  and  then 
the  full  choir  closed  round  it :  but  all  through  the 
chant  that  one  voice  rang  in  John's  ears  above  the 
rest,  and  as  he  listened  a  vision  came  to  him  that 
was  like  a  dream  within  a  dream.  A  floating  veil 
of  incense  ascended  in  dusky  clouds  against  the 
blaze  of  the  candles  on  the  altar :  behind  it  as  it  faded 
and  renewed  itself  he  saw  another  chancel  and  the 
light  of  a  long  past  morning  shining  strangely  clear 
upon  a  tablet  of  stone  between  a  young  man's  feet. 
"  Cor  Ricardi  Cor  Leonis,"  said  the  wonderful  voice, 
and  John  felt  his  own  heart  burn  within  him  as  it 
had  burned  when  he  heard  it  for  the  first  time. 
Then  the  altar  lights  came  back,  the  incense  scattered, 
and  the  vision  drifted  away  with  it :  he  was  here 
again  in  the  Priory  Church  of  Colne,  and  his  eyes 
were  set  once  more  upon  the  two  figures  kneeling 
beside  the  grave.  They  were  almost  as  formal  and 
motionless  as  statues,  but  they  had  a  beauty  far 
beyond  that  of  bronze  or  alabaster.  Both  were 
young  and  fair,  and  though  the  king  was  nearly 
ten  years  the  elder  of  the  two,  the  shorter  and 
more    rounded    outline   of    his   face    and    the   royal 


120  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

serenity  of  his  large  eyes  gave  him  a  strangely 
innocent  expression.  The  other  face  was  innocent 
too,  but  with  the  innocence  of  keen  and  concentrated 
energy :  the  hands  were  clasped  as  firmly  as  the 
armour  against  which  they  were  relieved :  the  head 
was  bowed,  with  the  earnestness  of  watchful  attention 
rather  than  of  deep  thought.  For  all  their  cold 
and  monumental  remoteness  John  was  moved  as  he 
looked  at  the  two :  he  had  long  loved  them  as  men, 
and  now  as  symbols  he  was  ready  to  adore  them; 
but  when  his  thought  turned  from  them  for  a  moment 
to  the  grave  which  lay  between,  he  felt  that  there 
was  still  some  meaning  in  their  presence  that  he  had 
not  fully  understood. 

While  he  was  straying  among  such  memories  and 
thoughts  the  chant  In  Paradisum  soared  up  and 
died  away :  when  it  ceased  the  kneeling  figures 
rose  in  their  places,  while  the  Archbishop,  standing 
before  them,  performed  the  Benediction  of  the 
Sepulchre  and  the  sprinkling  of  holy  water  upon 
the  dead.  The  moment  of  farewell  was  at  hand, 
and  John  saw  with  a  quick  feeling  of  answered 
expectation  that  a  change  had  come  over  the  whole 
character  of  the  ceremony :  the  Archbishop  was 
indeed  still  repeating  the  words  of  eternal  rest,  but 
the  king  was  standing  above  him  by  the  open 
coffin  with  his  face  set  in  the  stern  calm  resolve 
of  an  avenging  angel.  In  the  silence  which  followed 
he  took  the  hand  of  his  dead  friend  in  his  own,  and 


THE  BURIAL  OF  DE  VERE.  121 

raised  it  slowly  in  the  sight  of  all  present;  then 
turning  towards  the  altar  he  held  up  with  a  solemn 
gesture  a  sapphire  ring  drawn  from  his  own  finger, 
pressed  it  home  upon  the  dead  hand,  and  bowed 
his  head  over  the  coffin  in  the  attitude  of  one  who 
whispers  a  message  of  supreme  moment  in  the  ear 
of  a  dying  man.  Not  a  sound  reached  even  the  near- 
est of  those  who  stood  there  listening  intently,  but 
there  were  few  who  did  not  feel  that  they  had 
heard  that  whispered  message,  and  assented  to  the 
promise  with  which  the  king  had  pledged  himself 
before  heaven  and  in  their  sight. 

From  this  moment  until  the  end  the  consciousness 
of  strong  emotion  was  still  with  John  ;  the  remainder 
of  the  service  seemed  to  pass  over  his  head  with 
the  swift  and  melancholy  intensity  of  an  autumnal 
storm.  But  after  the  coffin  had  at  last  been  lowered 
into  the  grave,  and  the  face  of  the  dead  had  dis- 
appeared for  ever,  the  strain  was  gradually  loosened, 
and  the  air  lightened  more  and  more  quickly  towards 
dawn.  As  the  final  requiescat  in  pace  died  away, 
gleams  of  misty  sunlight  began  to  weave  a  network 
of  patterns  along  the  chancel  roof ;  the  soft  radiance 
grew  rapidly  brighter  as  it  descended  towards  the 
canopies,  and  when  the  mourners  rose  to  take  their 
places  once  more  in  the  procession,  John  felt  as 
if  all  that  was  evil  in  the  passion  of  that  night  must 
have  fainted  or  fled  before  the  hope  and  the  ardour 
of   the  coming   day.      But   the   king's   head,    as   he 


122  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

passed  close  by  him,  was  still  erect  and  menacing : 
the  look  on  his  face,  though  calm,  was  still  the 
look  of  one  who  remembers  enemy  and  friend 
together. 


XXII. 

The  ceremonial  was  not  yet  ended  nor  was  its 
symbolism  complete.  When  the  mourners  left  the 
church  it  was  to  take  part  in  a  scene  at  once  strik- 
ingly contrasted  with  that  from  which  they  came, 
and  as  clearly  one  with  it  in  tacit  significance. 
The  king  had  revealed  the  purpose  to  which  he 
dedicated  himself:  he  was  now  to  commit  it  to 
the  strength  and  loyalty  of  those  who  followed 
him. 

Two  by  two,  at  the  end  of  the  nave,  the  black 
robes  and  hoods  were  cast  aside,  and  the  long  line 
issued  from  the  west  door  as  a  pageant  of  proud 
and  almost  overbearing  magnificence.  Part  of  the 
square  was  still  in  shadow,  part  was  already  white 
and  warm  with  sunshine :  it  was  thronged  round  the 
edges  with  a  close  -  packed  orowd  of  townsfolk, 
kept  back  as  before  by  rigid  lines  of  soldiery. 
But  the  archers,  too,  had  now  cast  their  black 
and  added  a  frame  of  colour  to  the  brilliance  of 
the  scene ;  two  companies  of  them  were  blazing 
in    scarlet,    while    th^  third    wore    the    green   that 


THE    YOUNG   ST   GEORGE.  123 

Richard    loved,    with   his   badge   of   the   white   hart 
couchant  upon  it. 

On  the  south  side  of  the  square,  and  full  in 
the  sunlight,  a  crimson  carpet  had  been  laid,  with 
a  raised  dais  and  throne  facing  the  east.  Here 
Richard  took  his  seat :  by  him  stood  the  Arch- 
bishop, and  on  the  steps  below  were  six  earls — 
Rutland,  Kent,  and  Huntingdon  to  the  right,  and 
Oxford,  Nottingham,  and  Salisbury  to  the  left.  At 
the  farther  end  of  the  carpet  twelve  knights  faced 
the  throne,  and  in  front  of  them  stood  the  king's 
nephew  in  the  bright  armour  and  long  white  mantle 
which  he  had  worn  throughout  the  night.  At  a 
sign  from  Richard  he  approached  and  fell  on  his 
knees,  the  twelve  knights  also  kneeling  round  him. 

The  king  rose  to  his  feet,  and  taking  a  sword 
with  belt,  buckle,  and  scabbard  of  gold  from  the 
hands  of  the  Earl  of  Salisbury,  he  passed  it  to  the 
Archbishop,  who  blessed  it  and  handed  it  in  turn 
to  the  nearest  of  the  group  of  knights.  Then 
Richard,  taking  a  second  sword  from  the  Earl 
Marshal,  laid  the  naked  blade  three  times  upon 
the  young  man's  shoulder.  "Arise,  Sir  Thomas," 
he  said,  with  a  voice  of  great  clearness  and  solem- 
nity.    "Be  faithful,  brave,  and  fortunate." 

The  new-made  knight  raised  his  head,  but  made 
no  other  motion :  for  a  moment  the  king  and  he 
looked  deep  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  the  spec- 
tators felt  again  the  sudden  thrill  of  an  expectation 
beyond    their    experience.      A    moment    more,    and 


124  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

Richard  had  fulfilled  it  to  the  utmost :  he  flung 
his  right  arm  across  his  breast  with  a  gesture  of 
almost  frenzied  inspiration,  and  his  voice  rang 
through  the  farthest  corners  of  the  great  square. 
"  The  sword,  the  sword  1  Gird  thee  with  thy  sword 
upon  thy  thigh  ! " 

Sir  Thomas  rose,  and  the  knights  gathered  closely 
round  him.  While  they  took  his  cloak  from  him 
and  fastened  on  his  sword  and  spurs,  the  excite- 
ment of  the  onlookers  vented  itself  in  shouts  of 
enthusiasm.  John  would  have  cheered  with  the 
rest,  but  he  had  more  than  simple  good  feeling 
to  express :  for  him  the  ceremony  had  touched 
deeper  emotions  which  could  not  be  so  easily 
satisfied.  He  stood  silent,  but  he  was  intensely 
alive  to  all  that  was  passing,  and  his  ear  caught 
at  once  the  marked  difference  between  the  char- 
acter of  the  cries  around  him.  The  aimless  good- 
humoured  applause  of  the  crowd  outside  seemed 
to  have  little  or  nothing  in  common  with  the  con- 
centrated vehemence  of  the  voices  near  him,  as 
they  rang  out  again  and  again  in  a  fierce  unison 
that  was  strangely  unlike  any  sound  of  rejoicing 
he  had  ever  heard. 

But  now  the  scarlet  archers  drew  in  on  both  sides 
of  the  open  space,  and  formed  a  lane  down  which 
the  king  passed  on  his  way  to  his  lodging.  After 
him  went  the  Archbishop  and  the  six  earls,  and 
then  the  new  -  made  knight  in  his  bright  naked 
armour,    like    the   young    St    George.      His   twelve 


A    SPIRITUAL   PEDIGREE.  125 

companions  were  elsewhere,  but  his  brother  Edmund 
walked  beside  him,  carrying  his  helm  with  eager 
pride.  John  stood  looking  after  them ;  then  the 
green  oompany  closed  in  and  they  were  lost  to 
sight. 

Behind  them  streamed  the  rest  of  the  brilliant 
assembly  in  much  disorder,  talking,  commenting, 
discussing  without  measure  or  caution.  John  saw 
one  or  two  make  signs  to  him,  but  he  walked 
on  slowly  and  alone.  He  was  almost  the  last  to 
turn  out  of  the  square. 


XXIII. 

"And  yet  we  were  silent,"  said  a  voice  immediately 
in  front  of  him. 

He  knew,  before  he  looked  up,  what  he  should 
see:  the  voice  was  unmistakable.  At  the  mouth 
of  the  narrow  street  which  he  was  upon  the  point 
of  entering,  the  tall  loose  figure  of  his  friend 
William,  the  singer,  stood  waiting  for  him, — wait- 
ing as  naturally  and  confidently  as  though  he  had 
but  a  moment  since  stepped  out  before  him  from 
the  chapel  in  All  Hallows  Church. 

"I  have  seen  you  more  than  once  since  then," 
said  John,  answering  his  own  thought. 

"Why   not?"   replied    the   other;     "we   are   bees 


126  SHADOWS    BEFORE   DAWN. 

of  a  swarm :  and  yet  we  were  silent  to-day  when 
the  rest  buzzed." 

His  insistence  and  his  assumption  of  equality 
roused  John  once  more  to  a  feeling  of  opposition. 

"I  was  silent,"  he  said,  "for  reasons  of  my  own, 
not  because  my  heart  was  not  in  the  business." 

William  looked  frankly  at  him  from  under  his 
dark  serious  brows,  without  any  consciousness  of 
the  intended  rebuff. 

"  There  are  hearts  and  hearts,"  he  replied ;  "  the 
white  hearts  must  not  lie  in  the  same  bowl  with 
the  black  and  red." 

"We  lie  where  we  are  laid,"  said  John  shortly, 
"but  I  own  that  I  hated  some  of  the  noise." 

" Hurle wayne's  own  noise,"  said  William;  "what 
else  would  you  hear  from  Hurlewayne's  kin?" 

The  phrase  was  not  new  to  John,  and  he  knew 
well  what  was  meant,  but  the  word  "kin"  jarred 
and  angered  him :  it  seemed  to  confuse  Tom  with 
his  relations. 

"A  man  may  be  of  one  mind  and  his  family  of 
another,"  he  said. 

"Mad  as  I  am  I  know  that,"  replied  the  singer, 
"but  I  spoke  of  spiritual  kindred." 

"Then  you  spoke  too  soon,"  John  retorted  still 
more  sharply;  "what  can  you  know  of  my  lord's 
mind?" 

"I  know  its  pedigree,"  said  the  other  with  un- 
ruffled assurance,  and  then  stopping  suddenly  op- 
posite the  entrance   to  an  alley  at  the  side  of  the 


A   SPIRITUAL   PEDIGREE.  127 

street,  he  took  off  his  bonnet  and  bowed  courteously. 
"This  is  my  lodging,"  he  said;  "good  day,  sir,  and 
forgive  me  if  I  have  angered  you." 

He  turned  up  the  alley  and  strode  away,  but 
John  was  far  too  angry  to  let  him  go.  The  man 
had  some  power  over  him  which  he  resented,  and 
after  the  long  strain  of  the  night  he  was  in  the 
mood  to  continue  a  quarrel  until  he  got  some  satis- 
faction that  might  soothe  his  irritated  nerves. 

He  overtook  his  antagonist  as  he  reached  the 
farther  end  of  the  passage,  where  it  widened  into 
a  tiny  courtyard  with  a  low  paling  that  gave  upon 
a  field :  in  the  centre  stood  a  brick  well-head.  The 
house-doors  were  shut  and  the  windows  barred :  the 
whole  place  seemed  deserted. 

The  singer  took  his  seat  upon  the  edge  of  the 
well-head,  and  appeared  to  be  lost  in  thought.  John 
pulled  himself  together  and  steadied  his  voice. 

"I  have  done  you  the  justice,"  he  began,  "to 
suppose  that  there  is  some  meaning  in  your  words: 
men  have  paid  a  heavy  price  for  less  offensive 
language." 

William  rose  as  if  he  perceived  his  presence  for 
the  first  time,  and  offered  him  a  seat.  John  accepted 
it,  hoping  to  obtain  an  advantage  by  taking  the 
more  dignified  position;  but  he  had  no  sooner  sat 
down  than  the  singer  resumed  his  place  on  the 
opposite  side,  leaning  easily  with  one  hand  upon 
the  bricks  behind  him. 

John   was   still  making  an   effort   at  self-control, 


128  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

and  was  all  the  angrier  for  it.  "You  will  now  be 
good  enough  to  tell  me,"  he  said,  "what  you  meant 
just  now  by  the  pedigree  of  my  lord's  mind." 

The  other  looked  very  grave :  his  voice  was  slow 
and  deep  as  he  answered.  "Is  it  not,"  he  said, 
"the  mind  of  a  new-born  man,  a  child,  that  is  the 
son  of  Marland  that  is  the  son  of  Savage  that  is 
the  son  of  Swynnerton  that  is  the  son  of  Holland 
that  is  the  son  of  Death  and  Darkness?" 

If  John  had  understood  the  words  he  might  well 
have  been  goaded  even  to  violence;  but  the  shock 
of  astonishment  with  which  he  heard  his  own  name 
where  he  least  expected  it,  and  the  marvellous  sad 
music  of  the  voice  which  was  speaking,  took  away 
all  sense  of  irritation,  and  left  him  half  puzzled  and 
half  touched.  The  sad  voice  continued  still  more 
earnestly,  but  in  so  low  a  tone  as  to  seem  hardly 
intended  for  John's  ear  at  all.  "By  Him  that 
bought  me,  it  can  never  be  my  will  to  anger  any 
man.  O  Richard,  Richard,  they  that  beget  Death 
must  feed  Destruction,  they  and  their  brethren  and 
their  most  sacred  lords.  This  is  more  than  truth 
to  you,  and  you  take  it  for  less  than  nothing: 
you  came  to  your  kingdom  before  you  knew  your- 
self: crowned  you  were  with  a  crown — what  king 
under  Heaven  could  have  bought  the  like? — but 
you  took  counsel  with  the  reremice  that  view  the 
realm  head  downwards,  and  with  the  night-hawks 
that  are  strong  only  against  the  defenceless." 

It  was  probably  the  voice  that  conquered  John, 


A   SPIRITUAL    PEDIGREE.  129 

for  he  was  always  keenly  alive  to  beauty  of  tone, 
but  this  time  the  words  too  moved  him.  He  also 
loved  Richard  as  this  man  loved  him ;  he  also  hated 
the  night-hawks,  for  he  had  flown  with  them  once 
and  shuddered  to  remember  it.  But  between  him 
and  that  recollection  there  now  rose  the  sunlit 
figure  of  a  saint  in  bright  armour,  girded  with  a 
sword  that  could  never  be  drawn  in  any  unjust 
quarrel. 

"William,"  he  said,  "I  was  wrong  to  be  angry, 
but  you  were  wrong  to  say  what  you  did.  There 
may  have  been  ill -doings,  but  my  Lord  Thomas 
knows  nothing  of  them :  he  has  never  an  evil 
thought  in  his  head, — he  is  bent  on  making  peace 
with  his  enemies  at  this  moment;  he  will  be  the 
king's  right  arm.  What  is  the  sense  of  crying  him 
down  beforehand?  He  is  the  only  chance  we  have, 
and  you  yourself  called  him  'new-born' — no  one 
condemns  a  babe." 

William  looked  up  :  his  mood  too  seemed  to  have 
been  changed  by  his  companion's  earnestness,  but 
it  was  changed  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  a 
smile  was  broadening  over  his  dark  face.  "No," 
he  said,  "we  do  not  judge  children,  neither  do  we 
ask  their  advice." 

John  rose  to  go.  "I  know  what  you  mean,"  he 
replied  as  he  held  out  his  hand,  "but  you  may 
easily  be  too  despondent :  it  is  not  always  the 
oldest  eyes  that  see  clearest." 

William  accompanied  him  to  the  end  of  the  alley, 

I 


130  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

but  in  silence;  his  downcast  mood  seemed  to  be 
returning. 

"Cheer  up,"  said  John  at  parting.  "At  any 
rate  wait  to  weep  till  the  pitcher's  broken.  I 
believe  you  may  yet  see  a  young  man  make  a 
better  counsellor  than  many  elder  ones." 

The  smile  reappeared  for  a  moment  round  William's 
lips.  "I  may  yet  see  a  cow  hop  in  a  cage,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  shall  not  reckon  upon  it." 


XXIV. 

The  return  journey  to  London  occupied  the  best 
part  of  that  and  the  following  day,  but  the  time 
slipped  by  without  giving  John  any  good  oppor- 
tunity for  conversation  with  his  master.  Sir 
Thomas  was  possibly  tired,  certainly  preoccupied, 
and  the  few  remarks  he  made  were  all  of  arrange- 
ments for  the  immediate  future,  a  period  which 
seemed  to  be  causing  him  very  serious  thought. 

John  had  not  forgotten  that  these  arrangements, 
whatever  they  turned  out  to  be,  would  certainly 
involve  himself,  and  he  pricked  up  his  ears  when, 
on  the  morning  after  their  return  to  the  New  June, 
he  received  an  order  to  accompany  his  lord  as  far 
as  Friday  Street,  where  Sir  Thomas  intended  to  call 
upon  his  father  the  Earl  of  Kent. 


A  PAIR  OF  NOBLE  LORDS.  131 

For  some  time  John  waited  in  the  hall ;  he  talked 
with  some  of  Lord  Kent's  squires,  but  all  the  time 
he  was  wondering  vaguely  how  far  the  result  of 
the  conference  would  be  in  accordance  with  his  own 
wishes;  for  he  had  learnt  enough  philosophy  to  be 
prepared  for  a  good  deal  of  disappointment  at  the 
hands  of  the  great.  Tom  would  certainly  wish  to 
do  well  by  him;  but  Tom  would  have  a  hard  bar- 
gain to  drive  for  himself,  and  not  too  much  thought 
to  spare  for  others. 

Nearly  an  hour  had  gone  by  when  he  was  sum- 
moned at  last.  He  saw  as  he  entered  the  room 
where  father  and  son  were  alone  together  that  his 
apprehensions  were  justified :  the  old  man  looked 
agitated,  the  young  one  furious.  Lord  Kent  gave 
John  the  scantest  greeting,  and  called  past  him  to 
the  squire  who  had  ushered  him  in  to  send  a 
messenger  to  Lord  Huntingdon,  requesting  the 
favour  of  his  immediate  presence. 

The  door  was  hardly  closed  again  when  Tom 
rose  to  his  feet.  "You  must  forgive  me,  father," 
he  said  in  his  shortest  and  quickest  manner,  "but 
if  my  uncle  comes  I  go.  I  thought  you  and  I 
might  have  managed  our  own  affairs  for  once." 

He  turned  before  he  left  the  room.  "John,"  he 
said,  "my  father  has  been  good  enough  to  make 
me  very  generous  offers :  I  leave  you  to  accept 
them  for  me,  but  on  one  condition  only;  about 
that,  remember,  I  can  admit  no  interference,  and 
you  may  tell  my  uncle  so." 


132  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

He  was  gone  without  a  look  behind  him.  Lord 
Kent's  face  relaxed  to  something  like  a  grim  smile; 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  to  John. 

"  Tell  his  uncle ! "  he  growled  with  some  humour. 
"Ay!  tell  him,  do!" 

John  smiled  discreetly.  "I  can  hardly  inform 
him  of  what  I  do  not  know,"  he  said. 

"Don't  tell  me  that,"  cried  the  old  lord,  frown- 
ing again.  "  You  know  well  enough,  I'll  be  bound  : 
I  offer  Sir  Thomas  an  establishment  of  his  own,  and 
he  wants  a  marriage  with  it  —  a  marriage  that  is 
not  mine  to  give,  nor  the  king's  either." 

"Perhaps    the    lady's    father "    John    began 

diplomatically. 

"Don't  play  the  fool  with  me,  sir,"  cried  the 
old  lord.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the 
lady  has  no  father." 

"Her  brother,  then,"  said  John. 

"  Her  brother  and  mine  are  not  on  speaking  terms." 

"The  marriage  would  be  an  opportunity  for 
reconciliation." 

Lord  Kent  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "  You 
ought  to  know  my  brother  better  than  that,"  he 
said ;  "  besides,  it  takes  one  to  begin  a  feud,  but 
two  to  end  it." 

John  thought  he  perceived  a  certain  weakening 
of  the  resistance. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said  in  his  most  persuasive  tone, 
"may  I  suggest  —  is  it  not  almost  certain  —  that 
on  a  proposal  from  you  Lord  Stafford  would " 


A  PAIR  OP  NOBLE  LORDS.  133 

The  earl  looked  very  uneasy :  his  eyes  dropped,  aud 
when  he  raised  them  again  it  was  not  to  face  John. 

"The  thing  is  impossible,"  he  said.  "Whatever 
I  do  I  must  think  of  my  brother's  feelings  first.  I 
should  offend  him  mortally  by  such  a  suggestion. 
But  there  is  something  in  your  idea,  no  doubt," 
he  added,  looking  fixedly  at  John  once  more,  "and 
when  my  lord  arrives  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  you 
put  it  forward." 

John's  consternation  showed  plainly  in  his  face, 
— the  risk  was  to  be  all  his,  the  profit  everybody 
else's;  but  before  he  could  speak  Lord  Huntingdon 
was  announced. 

John  retired  to  the  end  of  the  room  while  the 
two  brothers  exchanged  greetings  and  sat  down  to 
talk.  They  spoke  at  first  of  other  business,  and 
he  had  time  to  reflect  upon  the  dangers  of  his  posi- 
tion :  he  looked  at  the  great  men  opposite  him  as 
a  grain  of  corn  might  be  supposed  to  look  at  the 
huge  millstones  between  which  it  was  about  to 
pass.  Their  appearance  fascinated  him — they  were 
now  so  unlike,  and  yet  they  must  once  have  been 
so  like  one  another.  Both  were  big  men  of  fine 
presence  ;  both  had  the  fair  complexion,  the  hooked 
nose,  the  broad  forehead,  the  prominent  cheek-bones, 
and  the  sharp  chin,  too  small  for  symmetry :  but 
even  in  these  points  there  was  a  characteristic  dif- 
ference over  all.  Huntingdon  was  the  red,  Kent 
the  yellow  variety  of  the  type;  the  one  was  florid, 
full-fed   and   choleric,   an  image   of  physical  force, 


134  SHADOWS   BEFORE   DAWN. 

while  the  other  with  his  drooping  moustache  and 
his  pale  beard  divided  into  two  small  points  after 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  made  but  a  weak  and 
sickly  effect  beside  him,  and  the  contrast  was 
heightened,  both  for  good  and  evil,  by  Kent's 
superior  refinement  and  a  crafty  look  that  peeped 
and  was  gone  again  like  a  lizard  in  a  broken  wall. 
Both,  it  is  needless  to  say,  had  more  attractive 
aspects;  but  none  of  them  were  present  to  John's 
mind  in  this  interval  of  apprehension. 

Another  moment  and  he  found  himself  in  the 
act  of  going  through  the  mill.  When  he  cam©  to 
the  name  "  Stafford,"  Lord  Huntingdon's  face  turned 
from  red  to  purple  with  a  suddenness  that  was  almost 
alarming,  and  John  saw  that  the  elder  brother  had 
marked  the  change  with  a  quick  furtive  glance:  he 
too,  it  was  clear,  had  his  apprehensions.  When  the 
proposal  was  at  last  fully  before  them  it  was  Kent 
who  at  once  declared  it  to  be  impossible. 

"  I  have  heard  something  of  this  already,"  he  said 
to  his  brother,  "  and  I  can  only  repeat  that  from 
my  point  of  view  the  idea  is  quite  intolerable:  the 
Staffords  are  enemies,  and  there  it  ends  :  I  will  be 
no  party  to  asking  anything  of  them." 

Huntingdon  had  lost  his  hectic  colour,  but  the 
heavy  rings  under  his  eyes  remained  darker  than 
usual,  and  he  was  evidently  finding  the  question  an 
uncomfortable  one. 

"  Body  of  God  ! "  he  said,  "  why  must  you  send  for 
me?" 


A   PAIR   OF  NOBLE    LORDS.  135 

"You  have  brought  the  boy  up  these  ten  years," 
replied  Kent,  "and  in  a  matter  of  such  importance 
I  should  naturally  wish  to  hear  your  opinion." 

Huntingdon  uttered  a  contemptuous  snort.  "My 
opinion  of  the  Staffords  is  that  they  are  like  pigs — 
more  savoury  dead  than  alive.  I  care  little  who 
knows  it,"  he  added,  as  he  saw  John  start.  His 
brutality  was  no  new  thing  to  one  who  had  lived 
five  years  in  the  New  June,  but  this  time  it  was  so 
shameless  that  even  a  squire  must  make  some  sign  of 
revolt.    John  felt  the  indignant  blood  rush  to  his  eyes. 

"But  I,  my  lord,"  he  exclaimed  hotly,  "I  care 
very  much  who  knows  it :  and  if  your  opinion  is 
to  be  reported  to  Sir  Thomas,  I  beg  that  you  will 
choose  some  other  messenger." 

Huntingdon  had  a  certain  liking  for  John ;  he  did 
not  resent  his  rebellious  tone,  but  he  looked  at  him 
with  callous  and  deliberate  contempt.  "What  ails 
Sir  Thomas  ?  "  he  sneered. 

Lord  Kent  intervened.  "It  appears  that  he  has 
seen  the  girl." 

His  brother  laughed,  a  boisterous  cold  -  hearted 
laugh.  "  Love  ?  "  he  cried.  "  That's  soon  settled  : 
send  him  abroad — he  can  finish  my  Jerusalem  jaunt 
for  me." 

Lord  Kent  seemed  thunderstruck  by  the  sugges- 
tion. "  But  what  of  this  business  of  Richard's  ?  "  he 
asked  in  a  lower  tone. 

"It  won't  ripen  yet:  if  it  does  he  oan  turn  back, 
as  I  did." 


136  SHADOWS    BEFORE    DAWN. 

He  took  up  his  gloves  and  slapped  thern  upon  his 
palm.  "Leave  it  to  me,"  he  said;  "I'll  give  him 
reasons." 

When  he  had  left  the  room  Lord  Kent  sank  back 
into  his  seat,  a  figure  of  dejection. 

"  A  year ! "  he  groaned ;  "  I  may  be  gone  before 
that." 

John  looked  at  his  dull  eyes  and  shrunken  yellow 
skin,  and  thought  that  he  might  not  be  far  wrong : 
his  disease  was  no  secret  in  the  household. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said  very  earnestly,  "  could  you  not 
at  least  approach  Lord  Stafford  ?  " 

The  old  lord  did  not  even  raise  his  head.  "  I  have 
done  it,"  he  replied,  "and  he  refused  us:  a  boy  of 
eighteen!  for  God's  sake  don't  tell  Huntingdon." 


PART    TIL 


LIGHT    IN    THE    EAST 


XXV. 

The  future  had  tumbled  about  John's  ears :  not 
one  stone  was  left  upon  another,  and  for  a  day 
and  a  night  he  struggled  breathlessly  among  the 
ruins.     Then  the  old  lord  sent  for  him  again. 

"John,"  he  began,  "you  are  a  man  of  some  ambi- 
tion, and  possibly  of  some  sense.  At  any  rate,  I  am 
going  to  work  on  that  assumption."  He  spoke  firmly 
and  with  no  trace  of  dejection. 

"Yesterday,"  he  continued,  "was  one  of  my  bad 
days  :  we  had  to  acknowledge  a  check,  and  I  was 
troubled,  for  I  have  only  a  oertain  time  before  me, 
and  none  to  waste  on  unnecessary  delays." 

"I  don't  understand,"  replied  John,  "at  least  I 
hope  not." 

The  Earl  smiled  faintly  at  this  well-meant  effort. 
"Thank  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  would  rather  you 
looked  facts  in  the  face.  I  am  a  doomed  man ;  but 
I  am  not  a  dead  man,  and  I  don't  mean  to  wear  a 
shroud  while  I  can  still  use  a  sword.  I  shall  build 
as  if  I  had  a  long  lease,  and  if  I  drop,  Tom  must 
carry  on :  that  means  that  the  sooner  he  gets  his 
training  done  the  better." 


140  LIGHT   IN   THE    EAST. 

He  paused  aud  gave  John  a  searching  look. 
"  What  did  you  make  of  the  Colne  affair  ? "  he 
asked. 

John  felt  uncomfortable.  Something  in  the  crafty 
eyes  of  the  questioner  brought  back  the  shadows  of 
that  night.  Instinctively  he  summoned  to  meet 
them  the  recollection  of  the  morning  sun  that  had 
put  them  to  flight. 

"I  thought  Sir  Thomas  was  splendid,"  he  replied; 
"he  looked  like  a  picture  of  St  George." 

The  Earl  probably  despised  this  touch  of  en- 
thusiasm :  but  he  observed  with  perfect  impartiality 
all  human  weaknesses,  since  they  were  all  possible 
opportunities  for  his  own  cool  hand. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  not  ungenially,  "saint  or 
no,  I  thought  myself  that  he  made  a  rather  striking 
figure  of  a  young  prince." 

"  He  did  indeed,"  answered  John  quickly,  and  then 
flushed,  as  he  realised  that  he  had  assented  before 
he  had  fully  understood.  He  glanced  at  the  Earl, 
but  saw  only  a  mask  of  innocence. 

"  The  king  destines  his  nephew  for  an  important 
part  in  his  scheme  of  reorganisation ;  the  arrange- 
ments are  already  made,  but  will  take  some  time 
longer  to  mature ;  we  have  perhaps  a  twelvemonth 
at  our  disposal.  I  was  a  little  startled  when  my 
brother  Huntingdon  suggested  a  long  voyage  —  a 
man  in  my  position  does  not  care  to  lose  sight  of 
his  immediate  successor.  But  the  successor  to  great 
affairs   must   be   one   who    has    seen    the    like :    Sir 


A  prince's  household.  141 

Thomas  must  be  shown  something  of  other  king- 
doms and  their  government." 

The  mask  continued  to  stare  innocently  in  John's 
face. 

"I  daresay,"  the  Earl  went  on,  "you  have  heard 
all  about  Henry  of  Derby's  two  voyages." 

This  time  John  started  outright.  "But  my  Lord 
of  Derby "  he  began,  and  stopped  short. 

"The  cases  are  not  perhaps  entirely  parallel,  but 
what  is  the  point  at  which  you  find  the  comparison 
so  impossible  ?  " 

This  time  John  had  seen  the  danger  ahead ;  he 
bolted  hurriedly  down  the  most  obvious  by-path. 
"My  Lord  of  Derby  took  three  hundred  men — quite 
a  small  army — with  him,"  he  said,  in  as  natural 
a  tone  as  he  could  muster. 

The  Earl  was  not  likely  to  have  missed  the  dex- 
terity of  the  turn,  but  his  look  was  still  one  of 
perfect  unconsciousness. 

"Very  true,"  he  said,  "Sir  Thomas  would  gain 
nothing  in  Prussia  or  Barbary :  war  against  savages 
is  no  lesson  for  a  Prince.  In  the  end,  you  may 
remember,  Derby  himself  sent  his  army  home,  and 
went  to  Jerusalem — like  any  other  gentleman  of 
his  rank." 

"Jerusalem "  John  was  in  the  dark  now,  and 

hesitated  to  commit  himself. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Earl  briskly,  "Jerusalem:  that 
includes,  of  course,  France,  Milan,  Venice,  and  any- 
thing else   you   please.      You   will  go  straight    out, 


142  LIGHT   IN   THE    EAST. 

as  fast  as  you  can  travel,  and  pay  all  your  visits 
on  the  way  back :  so  that  for  the  last  two-thirds 
of  the  time  you  will  be  constantly  nearer  home  and 
more  within  reach  of  a  possible  summons  from 
England." 

John  bowed :  the  idea  began  to  gain  upon  him, 
and  without  forgetting  his  castle  in  the  air,  so 
lately  ruined,  he  began  at  once  to  make  a  fresh 
one.  The  new  towers  would  take  longer  in  build- 
ing, but  they  would  be  loftier,  and  their  inhabit- 
ants would  be  the  same. 

The  old  lord  seemed  to  hear  his  thoughts.  "It 
is  natural  and  right  that  you  should  have  your  am- 
bitions," he  said,  "only  remember  that  the  better 
you  serve  my  ends  the  better  you  serve  your  own. 
So  the  future  will  bring  its  rewards  with  it;  but  in 
the  meantime  I  must  put  you  into  a  position  where 
you  can  do  what  I  expect  of  you." 

John's  heart  beat  fast,  and  once  more  the  other's 
instinct  dogged  its  galloping. 

"  Yes,  you  will  be  a  knight — when  my  son  attains 
his  full  rank :  while  he  is  Sir  Thomas  you  are  plain 
John  Marland.  But  I  can  do  something  for  you 
at  once." 

He  took  a  paper  from  the  table  and  handed  it 
to  John,  whose  eye  was  instantly  caught  by  the 
word  "Curia"  written  large  at  the  head  of  a  long 
list  of  offices.  The  Earl  commented  aloud  as  he 
went  through  them. 

"The    expense    will   be    considerable,    no   doubt," 


A  prince's  household.  143 

he  began,  "but  the  king's  nephew  must  travel  with 
as  good  a  household  as  his  cousin  of  Derby,  though 
he  need  not  make  himself  ridiculous  with  a  toy 
army.  The  Steward  and  Chamberlain  must  be 
knights,  and  of  some  standing — I  suggest  Sir  Hugh 
Dolerd  and  Sir  Walter  Manners.  You  may  take 
your  choice  of  the  other  places." 

John  read  the  list  through  a  second  time :  in  the 
first  column,  after  the  Steward  and  Chamberlain, 
came  the  Receiver-General,  the  Treasurer,  the  Audi- 
tor, and  the  Controller  of  the  Household ;  the  Butler 
and  the  Lord's  Clerk  or  Secretary ;  the  Almoner, 
the  Herald,  and  the  Chaplain  and  Confessor.  He 
passed  to  the  second  column,  and  found  there  the 
various  valets,  with  or  without  pages,  the  clerks  to 
the  wardrobe,  buttery,  spicery,  and  kitchen,  the 
minstrels,  henchmen,  physicians,  surgeons,  barbers, 
cooks,  and  waferers.  His  face  fell :  he  turned  back 
to  the  beginning  once  more,  and  the  blood  mounted 
to  his  temples.  Lord  Kent  watched  him  with  a 
smile,  but  left  him  to  speak  for  himself. 

"My  lord,"  said  John  at  last,  "I  am  sorry  to 
find  here  no  place  in  which  I  can  serve  Sir 
Thomas — or  any  one  else." 

"If  you  had,"  said  the  Earl,  "we  should  have 
bid  you  good  day." 

He  took  the  paper  from  John's  hand  and  turned 
it  over :  on  the  back  was  written  "  John  Marland 
to  be  Master  of  the  Horse  and  Marshal  in  Hall." 

"When    you    are    moving    continually,"   he   said, 


144  LIGHT   IN   THE    EAST. 

ignoring  John's  expression  of  thanks,  "  the  two 
offices  go  very  well  together :  the  arrangement 
worked  satisfactorily,  I  believe,  in  Derby's  voyage." 

John  acquiesced  with  decision. 

"You  will  draw  knight's  wages,"  added  Lord 
Kent  in  a  nattering  and  sympathetic  tone. 

John  bowed  as  stiffly  as  he  could.  "  I  under- 
stand by  that  that  I  am  to  be  accountable  only  to 
Sir  Thomas?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  Earl,  "and  will  you  now 
ask  Sir  Thomas  to  speak  to  me." 

His  crafty  eyes  followed  John  with  satisfaction 
as  he  left  the  room.  The  new  Marshal's  feeling 
was  less  clear :  it  was  not  until  he  had  put  some 
distance  between  the  old  lord  and  himself  that  his 
rise  in  life  brought  him  any  sense  of  exhilaration. 
Even  then  he  would  have  given  both  his  offices 
and  all  his  pay  for  the  smallest  pair  of  gilded 
spurs. 


XXVI. 

The  remainder  of  the  month  went  by  in  a  whirl 
of  preparation,  for  on  the  1st  of  October  the  ex- 
pedition was  to  start. 

A  longer  time  might  have  proved  necessary,  but 
every  one  showed  goodwill,  and  everything  worked 
with  unexpected   smoothness.      To   begin  with,    Sir 


FAT?  E  WELL   FANTASIES.  145 

Thomas,  to  his  Marshal's  surprise,  raised  no  ob- 
jection whatever  to  the  proposed  voyage  :  he  made, 
however,  two  requests  of  his  father  —  first,  that 
his  brother  Edmund  should  travel  with  him,  and 
second,  —  it  was  by  no  means  second  in  his  own 
mind,  —  that  he  should  not  leave  England  without 
saying  good-bye  to  Lady  Joan. 

To  John's  further  astonishment,  both  concessions 
were  granted  at  a  word.  As  to  Edmund — well, 
the  old  lord  had  been  long  accustomed  to  the 
absence  of  both  his  sons  for  a  great  part  of  the 
year;  but  after  what  had  lately  passed  between 
him  and  young  Lord  Stafford,  any  further  com- 
munication with  that  family  might  have  seemed 
utterly  impossible.  Perhaps  Lord  Kent  had  other 
motives  of  his  own,  perhaps  he  felt  his  self-respect 
concerned  in  doing  something  to  retrieve  his  late 
defeat :  in  any  case,  he  succeeded  in  bringing  about 
the  desired  meeting  on  neutral  ground  and  with 
every  appearance  of  accident.  As  far  as  any  one 
could  see,  it  was  what  he  had  calculated  it  would  be, 
a  formal  and  ineffectual  occasion  :  in  the  presence  of 
a  dozen  onlookers,  some  hostile  and  all  vigilant,  the 
lady  was  ice  and  the  lover  stone.  But  even  icebergs 
and  rocks  are  not  always  so  inanimate  as  they  ap- 
pear :  their  voices  are  heard  among  them,  and  say 
much  that  is  lost  to  the  uninitiated  ear.  Besides, 
there  is  always  one  unwatched  moment ;  and  barriers 
may  fall  in  a  moment  which  years  could  not  build  up 
again.      Probably   Lord    Kent's   vigilance   was   less 

K 


146  LIGHT   IN  THE    EAST. 

successful  than  he  believed.  Something  at  any 
rate  escaped  him,  for  he  would  have  been  surprised 
to  hear  the  message  which  Tom  delivered  to  his 
Marshal  on  the  evening  of  their  crossing,  as  they 
leaned  together  on  the  stern  bulwark  of  the  ship 
and  watched  the  white  cliffs  shrinking  into  the 
distance. 

"I  say,  John,"  he  began  in  his  abrupt  way,  "I 
can  tell  you  now.  She  sent  you  her  good  wishes, 
and  hoped  that  you  would  always  love  what  she 
loved,  and  hate  what  she  hated.  I  was  not  to  say 
that  until  we  had  left  England." 

"I  don't  understand,"  replied  John,  "it  sounds  so 
unlike  her." 

"  Unlike  her !  "  exclaimed  Tom ;  "  what  do  you 
mean  ?     Unlike  whom  ?  " 

"Well,  whom  were  you  speaking  of?" 

"  My  good  man,  whom  should  I  be  speaking  of  ? — 
Lady  Joan,  of  course." 

John  reflected  hotly  on  the  egotism  of  the  great; 
not  recognising  that  in  certain  moods  all  men  are 
alike. 

His  lord  pursued  him  remorselessly.  "I  see  how 
it  is,  John, — you  were  wrapped  up  in  your  own 
concerns :  if  by  chance  it  was  Margaret  Ingleby 
you  were  thinking  of,  I  can  give  you  a  message 
from  her  too." 

"Can  you?"  asked  John. 

"I  told  her  you  were  to  be  my  Master  of  the 
Horse,  and  she   said,   'What    a   splendid    title;  but 


FAREWELL   FANTASIES.  147 

it  won't  sound  quite  so  well  in  Palestine,  where  all 
the  horses  are  asses ! ' "  His  laugh  was  intention- 
ally loud.  John  ground  his  teeth  in  silence ;  angry 
as  he  was,  he  saw  that  it  would  never  do  to 
quarrel  on  a  point  like  this :  the  suggested  nick- 
name might  be  fastened  upon  him  for  the  remainder 
of  the  voyage. 

"  I  say,"  inquired  Tom  in  the  cheery  manner 
of  youth,  "you're  not  hurt,  are  you?" 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  the  Master  of  the  Horse, 
laying  an  ambush  in  his  turn.  "  I  was  thinking 
over  what  Lady  Joan  said :  as  coming  from  her, 
of  course  it  is  more  intelligible." 

"Very  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  remarked  Tom 
complacently :  it  was  pleasant  as  well  as  intelligible 
that  his  lady  should  wish  his  dependents  to  love 
him — above  all  to  love  him  as  she  did, — a  very 
happy  phrase. 

John  had  his  antagonist  beneath  his  foot  now. 

"  Good  lord  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  you  don't  suppose 
we  are  all  talking  of  Sir  Thomas  Holland,  do  you  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't,"  replied  Tom  in  confusion;  "but 
Lady  Joan  certainly " 

"Certainly  not,"  said  John;  "you  are  completely 
mistaken.  Lady  Joan  was  referring  to  a  conversa- 
tion I  had  with  Margaret  Ingleby  that  day  on  the 
moor  in  Yorkshire." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"   asked  Tom. 

"  It  was  about  the  king  and  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester." 


148  LIGHT   IN   THE   EAST. 

"  Why   should   she  mean   them    rather  than " 

he  hesitated. 

"Rather  than  your  lordship?"  said  John.  "Well, 
then,  why  should  she  ask  you  to  say  nothing  till  we 
were  out  of  England?" 

Tom's  pride  struggled  hard. 

"I  don't  believe  you  are  right,"  he  persisted. 

The  Master  of  the  Horse  gave  the  coup-de-grdce. 
"We'll  ask  your  brother,"  he  said,  looking  about  him 
towards  the  crowded  end  of  the  deck.  "  I  am  to 
love  what  Lady  Joan  Stafford  loves,  and  hate  what 
she  hates — that's  the  riddle,  isn't  it?  And  you  say 
the  answer  is " 

Complete  surrender  followed,  and  then  peace. 
Each  had  escaped  a  dangerous  moment,  and  though 
they  often  spoke  afterwards  of  Lady  Joan,  and 
sometimes  of  Margaret,  the  message  and  the  jest 
were  never  heard  of  again.  But  they  had  done 
their  work :  they  had  come  to  the  mill  where  all  is 
grist  that  will  feed  the  unresting  wheels. 


XXVIL 

The  young  men  enjoyed  their  long  journey  across 
Europe,  and  considered  it  a  new  experience.  Cer- 
tainly it  abounded  in  small  novelties,  but  in  any 
wider  sense  it  was  really  less  of  a  change  than  they 


FROM   WEST  TO   EAST.  149 

had  expected.  France  they  had  visited  before :  they 
spoke  French  after  a  fashion,  and  numbered  plenty 
of  Frenchmen  among  their  friends  or  acquaintance. 
Of  Italy  they  knew  less ;  but  they  had  trafficked 
with  Florentine  bankers,  worn  Milanese  armour,  and 
drunk  Venetian  wines.  Tom  and  Edmund  had  even 
a  strain  of  Italian  blood,  drawn  from  that  Alasia 
di  Saluzzo  who  had  married  a  FitzAlan  some 
generations  back.  It  is  true  that  the  landscape  of 
the  South  was  unfamiliar  to  them ;  but  they  were 
of  an  age  to  think  more  of  men  and  manners  than 
of  landscape,  and  there  has  always  been  a  great 
sameness  in  the  blend  of  obsequiousness  and  in- 
efficiency which  the  wealthy  traveller  encounters 
along  his  route.  From  hostelry  to  hostelry,  from 
abbey  to  abbey  they  went,  with  no  more  and  no 
less  monotony  than  would  have  attended  a  journey 
at  home.  The  hospitality  of  Courts  would  have 
provided  more  variety,  but  that  was  not  to  be  their 
portion  on  the  outward  route  :  Sir  Thomas  was 
travelling  almost  incognito,  and  they  seldom  passed 
two  nights  under  the  same  roof.  In  short,  they 
kept  very  much  to  themselves,  and  carried  England 
with  them  in  their  little  Curia  of  forty  souls :  their 
thoughts,  their  talk,  their  jests  were  English,  they 
rode  on  English  horses  all  day,  got  their  songs  and 
sermons  from  William  the  Singer  and  Nicholas  Love, 
ate  and  drank  in  the  English  fashion  all  evening 
and  dreamed  English  dreams  all  night,  till  at  the 
end    of    ten    weeks    they    rode    into    Mestre   in   the 


150  LIGHT  IN   THE    EAST. 

December  twilight  and  looked  across  the  cold  dead 
water  of  the  lagoon. 

Indoors  they  found  Sir  Hugh  Dolerd  and  his  men, 
who  had  been  sent  ahead  to  make  arrangements  for 
the  passage  to  Jaffa.  The  Senate,  on  receipt  of  Sir 
Thomas  Holland's  application,  backed  by  a  letter 
from  King  Richard  himself,  had  been  pleased  to 
grant  him  the  use  of  the  Veniera,  a  galley  com- 
manded by  Ser  Santo  Venier,  which  had  just  re- 
turned from  the  ordinary  winter  pilgrimage:  they 
had  also  voted  a  sum  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
ducats  for  presents  to  the  young  lord.  Sir  Thomas 
was  delighted:  but  John  smiled  to  himself  over  the 
discovery  which  he  made  soon  after,  that  the  Earl 
of  Derby's  claims  on  a  similar  occasion  had  been 
assessed  at  fifty  ducats  more.  He  persuaded  the 
Treasurer  of  the  Household  to  make  a  note  of  these 
ligures  in  the  margin  of  his  accounts  for  the  informa- 
tion of  Lord  Kent  on  their  return  to  Eugland.  Tom 
was  too  innocent  of  royal  ambitions  to  need  rebuke. 

The  horses  and  more  than  half  the  company 
were  left  behind  at  Mestre  to  wait  in  winter  quarters 
for  their  lord's  return  from  Palestine.  The  more 
important  members  of  the  household  accompanied 
Sir  Thomas  to  Venice,  where  a  lodging  had  been 
provided  for  them  on  the  Riva,  conveniently  placed 
between  the  Piazza  and  the  Arsenal,  where  the 
Veniera  was  lying.  Her  refit  had  been  some  time 
in  progress,  and  in  another  fortnight  she  would  be 
ready  for  sea. 


THE   VOYAGE   OP  THE    VENIERA.  151 

Meanwhile  there  was  Venice,  strange  and  beauti- 
ful even  in  December.  The  travellers  went  busily 
about  their  buying  and  their  sight-seeing.  They 
were  never  tired  of  exploring  the  high  romantic 
labyrinth  of  the  canals,  where  they  found  a  childish 
pleasure  in  the  long  silences,  broken  suddenly  by 
the  musical  cry  of  the  boatmen  and  the  swirl  of  the 
water  at  a  sharp  corner;  or  they  floated  idly  by 
the  island  of  San  Giorgio  at  the  unforgettable 
moment  when  the  Ave  Maria  bell  rings  over  the 
breathless  lagoon,  and  watched  the  winter  sunset 
burning  the  ripples  from  gold  and  blue  into  orange 
and  purple,  and  then  leaving  them  in  an  instant  to 
fade  from  wan  yellow  and  white  through  silver  and 
cold  grey  into  the  final  mystery  of  darkness. 

Perhaps  for  one  day  their  delight  was  unconscious : 
certainly  before  two  days  were  over  they  realised 
how  great  a  distance  they  had  come.  Their  old  life 
lay  far  behind  them  and  across  a  gulf,  for  at  Venice 
they  were  more  than  half-way  towards  the  East. 


XXVIII. 

On  the  22nd  of  December  the  weather  suddenly 
changed.  Up  to  this  time  it  had  been  remark- 
ably warm  and  still,  but  a  keen  wind  now  began 
to  blow  from   the  north-west,  which,   as  Ser  Santo 


152  LIGHT   IN   THE   EAST. 

pointed  out,  was  good  for  nothing  but  a  run  down 
the  Adriatic.  The  travellers  agreed  to  make  the 
best  of  it  as  he  advised,  hastily  added  to  their  store 
of  warm  clothing,  took  farewell  of  their  magnificent 
Senatorial  friends,  and  went  on  board  the  galley, 
which  was  now  lying  off  the  Lido  Channel,  some 
miles  out  of  Venice.  On  the  day  before  Christmas 
Eve,  the  same  being  a  Thursday,  the  Veniera,  with 
a  steady  breeze  behind  her,  set  sail  for  Zara. 

The  Jaffa  voyage  usually  took  about  six  weeks : 
the  time  was  unnecessarily  prolonged  by  the  frequent 
calls  made  at  such  ports  as  Ragusa,  Corfu,  and 
Modon,  with  the  double  object  of  amusing  the  pil- 
grims, to  whom  this  trip  was  probably  the  event  of 
a  lifetime,  and  of  giving  the  ship's  crew  opportun- 
ities of  selling  the  contents  of  the  pedlar's  bundle 
which  every  man  on  board  was  allowed  to  take  with 
him.  But  the  Veniera  was  now  hindered  by  no 
considerations  of  this  kind:  speed  was  her  object; 
she  carried  a  single  party  of  a  dozen  instead  of  her 
usual  motley  crowd  of  passengers,  and  her  crew  were 
picked  men  highly  paid ;  above  all,  the  provenza 
continued  to  blow  day  after  day,  to  the  immense 
and  unconcealed  pride  of  the  young  patrono,  who 
seemed  at  times  to  regard  this  good  fortune  as  a 
tribute  to  his  own  seamanship,  and  at  times  to 
accept  it  with  superb  humility  as  one  more  favour 
from  heaven  to  the  ducal  family  of  Venier.  Which- 
ever it  may  have  been,  it  brought  the  Veniera  safely 
to  Jaffa  within  five  weeks. 


GERUSALEMME  IRREDENTA.  153 

She  arrived,  too,   at   an    opportune  moment:    the 
Sabbatino   or    Deputy  -  Governor    of    Jerusalem    had 
come  down  to  Jaffa  on  affairs  of  his  own,  and  was 
on  the  point  of  returning  home.     He  had  had  a  very 
prosperous  season  of  extortion  with  the  last  regular 
batch   of   pilgrims,   and    saw   his    advantage   in   en- 
couraging others  to  come,  like  Sir  Thomas,  between 
the  ordinary  winter  and    summer  sailings.      For  a 
comparatively  reasonable  price  he  offered   to  escort 
the  Englishmen  to   Jerusalem  himself.      Ser  Santo, 
who  had  a  special  licence  from  the  Signory  to  accom- 
pany the  travellers  on  land,  closed  with  the  offer  at 
once,  and  in  two  days'  time  the  whole  party  were 
safely  lodged   in  Mount  Sion  with  the  Hospitallers 
of   St   John.     To   the   great   relief   of   at   least   one 
pilgrim,  the  animals  provided  for  the  journey  were 
in  this  case  all  huraea. 


XXIX. 

The  nine  days  which  he  spent  in  Jerusalem  John 
found  to  be  the  weariest  of  his  life.  The  way  of 
the  sight-seer  is  always  hard;  it  is  doubly  so  when 
a  continual  demand  is  made  not  only  on  his  atten- 
tion and  admiration,  but  on  the  highest  imaginative 
power,  the  deepest  emotion,  and  the  most  heroic 
credulity    of    which    he    is    capable.     Many    of    the 


154  LIGHT   IN   THE    BAST. 

scenes  which  the  pilgrims  visited  were  beautiful, 
and  in  some  their  feelings  were  rightly  touched : 
but  the  true  moments  were  but  moments  in  long 
hours  of  standing  and  staring,  while  every  sense 
was  deadened  by  the  mechanical  patter  of  their 
dragomen  and  the  pitiless  hurry  in  which  they  were 
shepherded  from  one  to  anooher  of  the  innumerable 
holy  places.  Above  all,  John  never  forgot  the 
misery  of  the  three  almost  sleepless  nights  which 
he  and  his  companions  spent,  according  to  the 
universal  custom,  in  the  Church  of  the  Sepulchre. 
The  filth  and  squalor  surrounding  the  place,  the 
insolence  of  the  Moslem  officials  who  locked  them 
in  at  night  and  let  them  out  in  the  morning,  the 
greed  and  triviality  of  the  friars  who  acted  as 
showmen  of  the  most  sacred  spot  on  earth,  and  the 
ceaseless  quarrels  of  the  nine  Christian  sects  who 
inhabited  it — all  these  were  bad,  but  they  were  not 
the  worst.  Depressing  beyond  everything  else  was 
the  feeling  of  utter  disillusionment,  the  sense  of 
groping  in  an  underworld  of  frauds  and  counter- 
feits, where  even  the  little  that  might  really  have 
been  priceless  was  lost  among  monstrous  fictions, 
or  heaped  over  with  tawdry  ornament. 

It  was  a  very  dispirited  company  that  sat  in  the 
upper  chamber  of  the  Hospital  on  the  last  night  of 
their  stay.  The  room  had  been  given  up  for  their 
sole  use  by  the  courtesy  of  the  Prior  of  St  John, 
but  they  had  hitherto  spent  very  little  time  in  it : 
this   evening,   when    they  had  finally   escaped  from 


GERUSALEMME  IRREDENTA.  155 

their  guides,  aud  bad  a  few  hours  left  to  themselves, 
they  were  sitting  together  in  front  of  a  small  lire 
and  taking  a  very  sober  retrospect  of  the  week. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  the  Steward, 
"I  say,  under  correction  of  Dom  Nicholas,  that  the 
whole  thing  is  little  better  than  a  peep-show  at  a 
fair." 

"Don't,"  said  Edmund  in  a  low  voice:  he  laid  a 
hand  appealingly  on  Sir  Hugh's  knee,  and  his  eyes 
glistened  in  the  dim  candle-light  almost  as  if  there 
were  tears  in  them. 

Nicholas  looked  at  him  with  great  affection :  then 
moved  his  chair  briskly,  and  took  up  the  Steward's 
challenge  in  as  cheerful  a  tone  as  was  possible  with- 
out arousing  suspicion. 

"I  know  what  Sir  Hugh  means,"  he  began,  "but 
I  confess  that  I  for  one  am  very  glad  to  have  been 
here.  We  have  seen  many  things  that  we  shall 
never  forget." 

"Certainly,"  said  Sir  Thomas  with  approval, — 
"many  things  that  were  well  worth  seeing." 

"I  don't  know  what  they  are,"  rejoined  Sir  Hugh; 
"the  only  thing  I  cared  to  see,  these  infidel  dogs 
refused  to  show  me.  They  say  there  are  a  thousand 
lamps  always  kept  burning  in  that  big  mosque  of 
theirs :  I  should  like  to  have  counted  them." 

Sir  Thomas  continued  to  make  the  best  of  his 
expedition.  "I  daresay  those  lamps  are  just  as 
visible  outside  as  inside:  about  as  genuine  as  the 
rock  from  which  Mohammed  ascended  into  heaven." 


156  LIGHT   IN   THE    EAST. 

"The  mosque  is  real  at  any  rate,"  persisted  Sir 
Hugh,  "and  they  ought  to  show  it." 

"What  has  impressed  you  most,  Sir  Walter?" 
Nicholas  asked  the  Chamberlain. 

"The  river  Jordan,  I  think:  I  brought  away  a 
jarful  for  the  christening  of  my  next  grandchild." 

"  You  have  forgotten  the  walls,"  said  his  lord ; 
"you  remember  we  thought  the  view  of  them  very 
fine  from  outside." 

"The  Church  at  Bethlehem,"  added  John,  "seemed 
to  me  the  most  beautiful  building  I  had  seen  since  we 
left  Venice." 

"But  none  of  those  things,"  argued  Sir  Hugh, 
"  are  what  we  came  to  see :  none  of  them  are  in 
Jerusalem." 

"N-no,"  said  Edmund  quickly,  his  eyes  lighting 
up  for  a  moment,  "b-but  Godfrey  de  Bouillon's 
sword  is,  and  that  is  real  enough." 

"It  was  once,"  murmured  the  monk  half  to 
himself. 

"Come,  Nicholas,"  said  Tom,  "you  haven't  told  us 
your  own  choice  yet :  you  are  not  one  of  the  dis- 
appointed ones  ?  " 

Nicholas  looked  up,  and  John  saw  that  his  face 
had  taken  the  frank  impenetrable  expression  which 
generally  served  as  a  mask  for  his  ironical  mood. 

"Disappointed?  not  I,"  he  replied;  "I  thought 
everything  quite  genuine — transparently  genuine: 
and  yesterday  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Holy 
Land  itself." 


GERUSALEMME  IRREDENTA.  157 

Tom  looked  puzzled.  "Yesterday?  —  I  thought 
you  were  with  us." 

"I  was  at  the  Place  of  Wailing." 

"So  were  we,"  said  Tom,  "but  I  saw  no  view 
— except  a  view   of  some  miserable  Jews  howling." 

"I  liked  those  Jews,"  Edmund  remonstrated; 
"they  wail  outside  the  wall  because  if  they  went 
into  the  mosque  they  might  tread  upon  the  place 
where  the  Holy  of  Holies  used  to  stand,  without 
knowing  it." 

Tom  ignored  this  plea.  "  By  the  way,"  he  said 
to  Nicholas,  "I  meant  to  ask  you  if  you  knew 
what  it  was  they  were  groaning  into  the  wall." 

"It  was  the  seventy-fourth  Psalm." 

The  words  seemed  to  convey  no  very  exact  in- 
formation to  any  of  the  company,  except  perhaps 
to  William  the  Singer,  who  leaned  forward  to 
listen  from  his  place  outside  the  circle. 

Nicholas  turned  to  John.  "  My  Lord  knows  it 
better  as  Ut  quid  Deus,"  he  said,  "but  it  is  worth 
hearing  even  in  English."  He  began  to  recite  it 
in  a  quiet  tone  that  had  more  sadness  than  passion 
in  it. 

"  O  Ood,  wherefore  art  thou  absent  from  us  so  long  :  why  is 
thy  wrath  so  hot  against  the  sheep  of  thy  pasture  ? 

"  O  think  upon  thy  congregation,  whom  thou  hast  purchased 
and  redeemed  of  old. 

"  Think  upon  the  tribe  of  thine  inheritance,  and  Mount 
Sion,  wherein  thou  hast  dwelt." 

He  paused,  and  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 


158  LIGHT   IN  THE    EAST. 

"It  has  a  fine  sound,"  said  Sir  Thomas  at  last, 
"but  it  doesn't  come  well  from  the  Jews.  They 
reap  what  they  sowed,  and  then  complain  of  it. 
I  hate  that." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  monk,  "we  naturally  hate 
and  despise  Jews  almost  as  much  as  we  hate  and 
despise  our  baser  selves.  But  they  have  their  use: 
they  have  expressed  national  repentance  in  a  very 
convenient  form." 

"Convenient  for  those  who  need  it,"  said  Sir 
Thomas,  "but  no  other  people  have  ever  rejected 
their  Redeemer." 

"No,"  replied  Nicholas,  "we  will  not  compare 
our  case  with  theirs.  Perhaps  I  did  not  mean  to 
say  ' convenient.' " 

The  irony  entered  deep  into  John's  soul:  he 
understood,  if  no  one  else  did,  the  tremendous 
accusation  that  lay  behind  the  plain  words  and 
simple  tone ;  how  could  he  endure  to  sit  by  in 
silence  and  hear  his  boy-lord  blunder  into  an  argu- 
ment, which,  as  he  knew  only  too  well,  needed 
very  wary  fighting. 

"I  don't  think  you  have  quite  taken  Nicholas's 
point,"  he  broke  in, — "not  that  we  need  discuss  it 
here,  but  I  know  that  he  has  a  fixed  idea  about 
the  condition  of  England  just  now:  he  thinks  the 
ruling  class  are  oppressive  and  lawless  and  re- 
vengeful. He  seems  to  me  to  forget  that  there 
are  times  when  a  man  must  strike,  and  strike 
hard  too,  if  he  is  to  do  his  duty  at    all.     But  we 


GERUSALEMME  IRREDENTA.  159 

need  not  talk  about  it  now,  —  it  has  nothing  to 
do  with  this  country." 

Tom  saw  no  reason  for  cutting  the  argument 
short — it  rather  interested  him.  "I  daresay  there 
is  something  in  what  he  says,  John,"  he  remarked; 
"you  and  I  have  seen  some  pretty  hard  cases  lately. 
But  times  will  mend  soon ;  and  if  you  won't  mind  my 
saying  so,  Nicholas,  I  think  you  mustn't  expect  us  to 
take  so  clerical  a  view  as  you  do  of  these  matters." 

"  Forgive  me,"  replied  the  monk ;  "  it  is  the  wail- 
ing of  those  poor  Jews  that  has  got  into  my  head. 

" '  O  deliver  not  the  soul  of  thy  turtle-dove  unto  the  multi- 
tude of  the  enemies,  and  forget  not  the  congregation  of  the  poor 
for  ever. 

" '  Look  upon  the  covenant ;  for  all  the  earth  is  full  of 
darkness  and  cruel  habitations. 

" '  Forget  not  the  voice  of  thine  enemies  :  the  presumption 
of  them  that  hate  thee  increaseth  ever  more  and  more.'" 

Sir  Thomas  reddened :  the  point  was  plain  enough 
now,  and  he  thought  his  chaplain  was  pressing 
him  too  far. 

"My  dear  Nicholas,"  he  began,  with  some  at- 
tempt at  severity,  "you  should  remember  that  if 
you  love  England,  so  do  we;  and  some  of  us  feel 
strongly  that  the  real  patriot  is  the  man  who 
believes  the  best  of  his  country." 

"Ah!"  replied  the  monk  in  the  candid  tone  of 
one  forced  to  an  admission,  "certainly  the  Jewish 
patriots  never  did  that :  they  knew  the  worst,  and 
could  only  hope  the  best,  of  theirs." 


160  LIGHT   IN   THE    EAST. 

John  made  an  impatient  movement  at  this  re- 
newal of  the  attack.  Sir  Thomas  misinterpreted 
the  gesture  as  agreeing  with  his  own  thought. 

"  I  cannot  see,"  he  replied  to  Nicholas,  "  why  you 
keep  dragging  in  the  Jews.  Their  history  is  very 
good,  of  course,  for  clerical  purposes — for  teaching 
and  preaching  and  that  sort  of  thing,  and  we  know 
that  it  was  written  for  our  edification ;  but  as  a 
matter  of  record  the  Jews  themselves  seem  to  me 
to  come  very  badly  out  of  it.  And  whatever  they 
may  have  been  once,  you  cannot  be  serious  in  com- 
paring them  with  us — now.  Look  at  our  wealth, 
our  dominions,  our  famous  battles  and  naval  vic- 
tories,— look  at  our  position  in  Europe " 

"  Think  of  our  beautiful  forests,"  Edmund  chimed 
in,  "and  all  our  castles  and  cathedrals." 

"Besides,"  added  his  brother,  with  an  argument- 
ative rise  in  the  pitch  of  his  tone,  "  how  can  the 
Jews  of  to-day  understand  anything  at  all  of 
patriotism  when  they  don't  own  an  acre  of  land: 
they  have  no  country." 

"But  they  seek  one  to  come." 
The  deep  tones  fell  upon  the  altercation  and 
silenced  it,  as  if  by  irresistible  authority:  on  the 
outer  edge  of  the  circle  stood  William  the  Singer, 
of  whose  very  presence  every  one  had  been  oblivious. 
As  they  now  turned  and  looked  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment he  seemed  to  be  changed — the  same,  and  yet 
wholly  changed,  as  a  wandering  king  might  be  who 
should  suddenly  reveal  himself  without   bodily  put- 


GERTTSALEMME    IRREDENTA.  161 

ting  off  his  disguise.  His  dark  eyes  looked  beyond 
the  company  before  him  with  a  sombre  glow  in 
their  depths :  his  right  hand  was  half -raised,  half- 
outstretched,  and  his  head  bent  a  little  forward, 
as  if  he  were  speaking  to  some  one  too  far  distant 
to  hear  his  voice  but  too  near  his  heart  for  silence 
to  be  any  longer  possible. 

"You  that  are  lords  of  England  and  masters  of 
manhood,  for  what  will  you  sell  the  birthright  of 
your  sons?  For  a  little  earth,  ye  that  have  earth 
enough  :  for  a  little  gold,  ye  that  have  gold  already  : 
for  one  more  cup  of  wine  before  the  lights  go  out 
— wine  of  oppression,  wine  of  hatred,  wine  of  anger, 
red  wine  of  strength  without  softness  and  of  fire 
without  comfort:  What  think  ye  to  leave  behind 
you?  What  is  it  that  ye  heap  up  with  the  labour 
of  giants?  Kingdoms  of  dust,  cities  and  walls  of 
dust:  dust  for  the  hungry,  dust  for  the  thirsty, 
dust  for  the  portion  of  all  your  children's  children. 
O  Jerusalem,  dream  of  the  world,  visit  now  the  eyes 
of  these  men,  that  they  may  love  thee  and  live. 
For  the  folk  and  realm  that  serveth  not  thee  shall 
perish :  yea,  those  heathen  men  shall  be  destroyed 
by  wilderness.  But  the  sons  of  them  that  made 
thee  low  shall  come  low  unto  thee,  and  all  they 
that  despised  thee  shall  worship  the  steps  of  thy 
feet,  and  they  shall  call  thee  the  city  of  the  Lord, 
the  Zion  of  the  Holy  One  of  Israel.  Whereas  thou 
hast  been  forsaken  and  hated  so  that  there  was 
none  that  passed  by  thee,  God  shall  make  thee  an 

L 


162  LIGHT   IN  THE   EAST. 

eternal  excellency,  a  joy  of  many  generations.  He 
shall  also  make  thy  officers  peace  and  thine  exactors 
rightfulness.  Violence  shall  no  more  be  heard  in 
thy  land,  neither  destroying  nor  defiling  within  thy 
coasts,  but  Health  shall  occupy  thy  walls  and  thy 
gates  Praising." 

His  voice  trembled  to  the  close  with  so  tender 
and  self-forgetful  a  passion  that  John,  who  knew  it 
of  old,  felt  an  unreasonable  weakness  blind  his  eyes 
for  a  moment.  His  companions  were  all  moved, 
each  in  his  own  degree  of  sensitiveness :  it  was 
for  Sir  Thomas  to  relieve  the  general  discomfort. 

"William,"  he  said,  with  a  sternness  half  in- 
tended for  his  own  encouragement,  "I  think  you 
have  forgotten  yourself:  we  shall  be  glad  to  see 
you  again  when  you  have  slept  off  your  excitement." 

The  singer  went  out  quietly  as  if  of  his  own 
motion.  At  the  door  he  turned  and  bowed  with  a 
simple  dignity  which  made  matters  worse  rather 
than  better  for  those  who  remained.  The  Con- 
troller of  the  Household  rose  and  kicked  his  chair 
out  of  his  way.  "Half  Lollard  and  half  madman, 
I  should  say,"  he  growled  to  his  neighbour,  Sir 
Walter. 

"I  thought  they  were  one  and  the  same  thing," 
replied  the  Chamberlain,  and  added  in  a  lower  voice, 
"  I  never  understood  why  they  brought  the  fellow." 

John  overheard  him.  "It  was  my  doing,"  he 
said  fiercely:  he  did  not  know  with  whom  he  was 
most  angry. 


ONE   WAY   OP    GOVERNING.  1G3 


XXX. 

The  Veniera's  return  voyage  was  hardly  less  pros- 
perous than  her  outward  run :  her  oars  were  seldom 
needed,  and  by  the  18th  of  March  she  was  once 
more  lying  in  the  Arsenal  at  Venice,  ready  to  refit 
in  haste  for  the  ordinary  spring  pilgrimage.  Letters 
from  England  were  waiting  for  the  travellers.  The 
earlier  ones  brought  no  news  of  importance;  but  a 
later  packet  contained  some  guarded  instructions 
to  John  from  the  Earl  of  Kent,  and  gave  an 
account  of  the  situation  at  home.  Affairs  were 
moving,  but  with  extreme  slowness :  Richard  was 
more  firmly  set  than  ever  upon  his  proposed 
marriage  with  the  young  Princess  Isabel  of  France, 
while  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  continued  to  protest 
violently,  in  private  and  in  public,  against  any 
such  alliance.  His  view  was  popular  with  the 
poorer  lords  and  knights,  whose  livelihood  depended 
largely  upon  a  renewal  of  the  French  war;  but 
there  was  little  sign  of  any  positive  disloyalty 
among  them,  and  on  the  whole  the  king  appeared 
to  be  getting  the  best  of  the  game,  for  he  was 
at  any  rate  going  forward.  The  Earl  Marshal  and 
the  Earl  of  Rutland  had  been  appointed  ambassadors 
to  Paris,  with  full  powers  to  treat  for  the  marriage, 
and  Gloucester  had  not  ventured  to  press  his  opposi- 
tion  beyond    the    use    of    bad    language — a   foolish 


164  LIGHT   IN   THE   EAST. 

method,  for  it  left  in  Richard's  hands  the  power 
of  choosing  his  own  time  for  calling  his  adversary 
to  account.  In  short,  Lord  Kent  was  satisfied  with 
the  trend  of  events,  and  saw  no  reason  at  present 
why  his  sons  should  cut  short  their  Italian  tour. 

So  far  the  letter  was  evidently  intended  for  the 
information  of  Sir  Thomas,  as  well  as  his  Master 
of  the  Horse,  to  whom  it  was  addressed  as  to  a 
confidential  servant  practically  in  charge  of  his 
young  lord.  It  contained,  however,  an  enclosure, 
marked  for  John's  private  perusal,  and  to  be  de- 
stroyed as  soon  as  he  had  read  it.  John  saw  at 
once  that  the  longer  he  delayed  about  this  the 
more  likely  was  his  position  to  become  embarrass- 
ing :  if  he  could  get  even  half  an  hour  to  himself 
he  could  master  the  contents  of  the  document, 
put  them  beyond  the  reach  of  any  one  else,  and 
decide  on  the  line  to  take  in  replying  to  Sir 
Thomas,  who  had  seen  the  enclosure  when  the 
letter  was  opened,  and  would  be  certain  to  inquire 
the  meaning  of  it.  He  accordingly  made  a  hasty 
excuse,  and  ran  out  of  the  house  without  giving 
any  one  a  chance  of  stopping  him  even  for  a 
moment. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  day,  and  the  Riva  was 
plentifully  sprinkled  with  people  of  both  the  idle 
and  the  busy  varieties ;  it  was  no  place  for  a  man 
who  desired  privacy.  John  walked  at  his  best  pace 
towards  the  Piazza,  for  he  remembered  that  until 
he  reached  the  angle  of  the  Doge's  Palace  there  was 


ONE   WAY  OF  GOVERNING.  165 

no  available  turning  for  a  man  on  foot,  and  he  was 
still  afraid  of  beiug  overtaken  by  one  or  other  of 
his  companions.  He  went  so  fast  as  to  cause  a 
good  deal  of  inconvenience  to  two  well  -  dressed 
Italians,  who  had  followed  him  from  the  first 
moment  of  his  exit  from  the  house. 

He  was  not  to  escape  them  for  long.  At  the 
entrance  of  St  Mark's  he  found  himself  in  a  crowd 
through  which  he  could  only  pick  his  way  with 
some  difficulty :  this  entanglement,  which  he  wel- 
comed as  tending  to  secure  him  against  his  friends, 
delivered  him  into  the  hands  of  his  actual  pursuers, 
of  whose  existence  he  was  ignorant.  They  skirted 
the  edge  of  the  crowd,  and  when  he  finally  emerged 
from  it  in  the  direction  of  the  Merceria  they  came 
forward  to  meet  him  with  a  natural  and  courteous 
salutation. 

John's  knowledge  of  Italian  was  not  very  ad- 
vanced, and  he  spoke  it  better  than  he  understood 
it;  but  the  strangers  succeeded  in  conveying  to 
him  a  message  of  invitation  from  the  Magnificent 
Signore  Contarini,  who  was  at  the  moment  in  the 
Doge's  Palace  close  at  hand,  and  would  be  glad  to 
see  him  immediately,  if  it  was  not  inconvenient  to 
him. 

It  was,  of  course,  inconvenient,  but  John  did 
not  feel  equal  to  explaining  this  without  seeming 
discourteous ;  he  was  not  even  able,  though  he 
made  some  efforts,  to  discover  what  Signore  Con- 
tarini wanted  with  him,  or  how  he  could  have  sent 


166  LIGHT  IN  THE   EAST. 

messengers  to  him  so  soon  after  his  arrival  in 
Venice.  Possibly  there  was  some  mistake :  but  he 
had  met  and  liked  Contarini  during  his  previous 
visit,  and  he  ended  by  following  his  guides  with 
reasonable  cheerfulness. 

They  led  him  straight  to  the  second  floor  of 
Calendario's  building,  which,  as  he  already  knew, 
contained  the  state  -  rooms  set  apart  for  the  con- 
duct of  business  by  the  highest  officials  of  the 
Republic ;  but  his  memory  of  them  was  not  very 
clear,  and  he  passed  through  the  hall  of  the 
Council  of  The  Ten  without  recognising  it.  His 
guides  knocked  at  a  closed  door  on  the  far  side 
of  the  hall;  it  was  opened  at  once,  and  he  found 
himself  in  a  much  smaller  room  whose  name  and 
use  he  had  also  forgotten.  Its  only  occupant  was 
an  underling,  who  received  an  order  from  one  of 
the  two  guides  and  disappeared  without  a  word. 

Up  to  this  moment  John  had  felt  himself  to 
be  rather  at  a  disadvantage,  but  in  no  real  diffi- 
culty. After  half  an  hour's  waiting,  and  repeatedly 
failing  to  gain  further  information  from  his  con- 
ductors, his  mood  changed  and  became  first  im- 
patient and  then  suspicious.  A  quarter  of  an  hour 
later  he  explained  that  he  could  wait  no  longer, 
and  was  informed  by  his  two  companions,  with 
many  apologies,  that  he  would  not  be  allowed  to 
leave  the  room.  The  situation  was  no  sooner  made 
clear  than  his  memory  was  suddenly  illuminated: 
this    was   the    Stanza   dei    Tre   Capi   del   Consiglio, 


ONE   WAY   OF   GOVERNING.  167 

the  private  room  of  The  Three,  the  mysterious 
heads  of  the  mysterious  and  omnipotent  Council  of 
The  Ten. 

The  door  opened,  and  three  gentlemen  entered. 
They  wore  long  black  robes  over  very  rich  costumes, 
and  each  of  them  bowed  to  John  with  severe  dignity  ; 
they  then  took  their  seats  at  a  broad  table  and 
motioned  him  to  a  place  on  the  opposite  side.  At 
the  ends  of  the  table  sat  two  secretaries ;  to  right 
and  left  of  John  those  who  had  been  his  conductors 
closed  quietly  in. 

"S  ignore,  we  are  much  honoured  by  your  ready 
response  to  our  invitation,  and  if  we  have  kept 
you  waiting  we  pray  your  forgiveness." 

The  speaker  was  the  eldest  of  The  Three ;  he  sat 
in  the  centre,  face  to  face  with  John,  and  eyed 
him  with  so  calm  a  gravity  that  his  words 
sounded  almost  disdainful. 

"Pardon  me,"  replied  John,  "I  was  invited  to 
meet  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Contarini." 

"A  mistake  possibly,"  said  the  Venetian.  "In 
any  case  we  are  glad  to  see  you.  You  have  re- 
ceived letters  from  England." 

"Private  letters." 

"Private?"  replied  his  examiner;  "are  they  not 
from  the  king's  brother?" 

"They  are  private  letters." 

"On  public  affairs." 

"In  any  case,"  said  John,  controlling  himself,  "I 
do  not  see  that  your  lordships  are  concerned." 


168  LIGHT  IN  THE   EAST. 

"The  Kepublic  is  concerned  with  the  affairs  of 
all  nations." 

"Then  the  Republic,"  John  retorted,  "must  use 
its  own  sources  of  information." 

The  Venetian  was  quite  unmoved.  "It  will  do 
so,"  he  replied.  "  But  one  of  your  letters  contained 
an  enclosure." 

John  was  startled:  no  one  but  Sir  Thomas  had 
seen  him  open  the  letter;  yet  this  could  be  no 
random  guess.  For  a  single  instant  he  thought  of 
destroying  the  paper  before  it  could  be  taken  from 
him.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  yet 
read  it  himself;  the  message  was  evidently  of  im- 
portance, and  it  would  take  months  to  get  it  re- 
peated from  England.  In  desperation  he  tried  what 
frankness  would  do.  "There  was  an  enclosure,"  he 
said,  looking  the  Venetian  in  the  faoe,  "  but  I  know 
nothing  of  its  contents." 

"That  can  be  soon  remedied. " 

"Not  so  easily!"  replied  John,  laying  his  hand 
on  his  dagger. 

No  one  moved.  "Surely,"  said  the  Venetian, 
"you  do  not  suspect  us  of  such  means?" 

"Nothing  else  will  do,"  retorted  John,  a  little 
ashamed. 

The  Head  of  the  Council  smiled.  "Then  the 
Republic  must  again  use  its  own  sources  of  infor- 
mation." One  of  the  secretaries  handed  John  a 
paper. 

"  Be    in    no    haste    to    leave    Pavia ;    there    is    a 


ONE   WAY  OF   GOVERNING.  169 

match  there,  if  it  could  be  drawn  on,  that  would 
bring  us  more  than  a  boy's  first  fancy.  Virtutum 
qucerite  lucem." 

John  was  bewildered.  He  read  the  words  with 
difficulty,  and  the  suggestion  contained  in  them 
was  as  strange  to  him  as  the  clerkly  Italian  hand 
in  which  they  were  written. 

"But  how  do  I  know  this  is  genuine?"  he 
asked. 

The  Venetian  smiled  again.  "  You  might  compare 
it  with  the  original." 

John's  hand  went  mechanically  to  his  pocket. 
The  paper  which  it  drew  forth  contained  the  same 
message,  word  for  word,  in  the  familiar  hand  of 
Lord  Kent's  secretary. 

"It  is  Greek  to  me,"  he  said  with  some  vehe- 
mence— "Greek  from  beginning  to  end." 

"The  Republic  can  supply  a  translation,"  replied 
the  Head  of  the  Council,  "if  you  will  then  tell  us 
how  you  intend  to  act." 

John  was  silent. 

"Come,"  said  the  Venetian,  who  saw  that  he 
was  really  puzzled,  "we  will  do  our  part  first. 
We  gather  that  the  young  Lord  Thomas  has  formed 
an  attachment  in  England;  that  his  father,  seeing 
obstacles  to  the  marriage,  has  sent  him  abroad, 
perhaps  to  distract  him,  more  probably  to  gain 
time,  and  now  hopes  that  you  may  arrange  a  more 
advantageous  alliance  at  the  Court  of  Pavia.  This, 
surely,  is  very  easy  Greek  ?  " 


170  LIGHT   IN   THE   EAST. 

John  bowed,  but  remained  obstinately  silent. 

"The  Court  of  Pa  via,"  continued  the  other,  "has 
been,  and  will  be  again,  at  war  with  the  Republic. 
For  the  moment  we  have  a  truce,  but  we  should 
regret  an  alliance  between  that  power  and  the 
King  of  England." 

"The  King  of  England!"  cried  John;  "he  is 
to  marry  Isabel  of  France." 

"The  present  King  of  England  is,"  replied  the 
Venetian,  "not  his  nephew." 

John  would  have  protested  against  this  innuendo, 
but  he  remembered  uncomfortably  certain  phrases  of 
Lord  Kent's  and  turned  aside. 

"  You  speak  of  the  Visconti,  but  I  see  no  reference 
to  them.  My  lord  suggests  a  match,  but  he  does 
not  say  with  whom." 

The  Venetian  smiled  once  more.  "  Virtutum 
qucerite  lucem,"  he  said,  "that  is  not  even  Greek, 
it  is  plain  Latin.  Count  de  Vertus — Comes  Vir- 
tutum —  is  the  title  of  Gian  Galeazzo,  Lord  of 
Milan  and  Pavia." 

The  whole  tangle  was  now  clear,  and  to  his  relief 
John  saw  the  way  out  of  it.  He  had  but  to  disown 
intentions  which  he  knew  would  be  as  repugnant  to 
Tom's  feelings  as  to  his  own. 

"My  lords,"  he  said,  "you  make  too  much  of  this 
scrap  of  paper.  It  is  only  a  suggestion,  made  with- 
out a  thought  of  politics,  and  not  to  be  communi- 
cated even  to  Sir  Thomas  himself.  I  am  content 
to  give  you  my  word  of  honour,  if  you  will  allow 


ONE   WAY   OF  GOVERNING.  171 

me  to  destroy  these  documents,  that  I  will  neither 
speak  of  them  nor  act  upon  them." 

The  Three  looked  at  one  another  and  a  word  or 
two  passed  between  them. 

"We  accept  your  offer,"  said  their  chief,  and 
made  a  sign  to  one  of  the  secretaries.  The  man 
handed  a  crucifix  to  John.  The  Englishman's  dig- 
nity was  offended:  he  reddened  and  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  gentlemen  opposite. 

The  Head  of  the  Council  rebuked  his  secretary. 
"What  is  the  use  of  that?"  he  asked  severely, 
"  the  signore  has  passed  his  word :  it  was  the 
brazier  I  called  for." 

The  man  hastened  to  bring  a  small  brazier  of 
charcoal,  upon  which  John  laid  Lord  Kent's  message 
and  the  copy  of  it.  As  they  shrivelled  into  ashes 
he  saw  once  more  the  three  Latin  words,  and  re- 
membered that  only  one  of  them  had  been  explained 
to  him.  "  Qucerite  lucem" — what  was  the  "light" 
they  were  to  seek?  He  could  not  ask,  for  he  had 
abjured  the  quest :  but  curiosity  remained. 

The  Three  now  rose,  and  conducted  him  with 
great  courtesy  to  the  head  of  the  staircase.  Two 
of  them  took  leave  of  him  there:  the  third  accom- 
panied him  to  the  entrance  of  the  Piazza,  and 
made  a  cordial  parting  in  public,  which  no  doubt 
impressed  the  crowd  of  loiterers. 

It  certainly  had  its  effect  on  John  himself:  he 
forgot  that  he  had  been  spied  upon  and  arbitrarily 
arrested,  he  forgot  that  he  had  been  coerced,  though 


172  LIGHT  IN  THE   EAST. 

not  against  his  inclination :  he  remembered  only  the 
courtesy,  the  power,  and  the  intelligence  of  his  ex- 
aminers, and  went  home  wondering  why  other  king- 
doms could  not  entrust  themselves  to  a  Council  of 
Ten. 


XXXI. 

Six  weeks  afterwards,  on  a  fine  evening  near  the 
end  of  April,  John  had  his  first  sight  of  Pavia, 
a  romantic  cluster  of  pinnacles  silhouetted  against 
a  clear  sunset  sky.  It  was  worthy,  he  thought, 
of  its  title  —  the  City  of  the  Hundred  Towers, — 
but  ninety- nine  of  the  towers  counted  for  little  in 
his  imagination  compared  with  the  hundredth  one, 
the  newest  of  all,  that  whioh  rose  above  the  great 
red  Castello  of  the  Visconti. 

Visconti !  the  name  haunted  him,  clung  to  him, 
seemed  to  have  become  a  permanent  part  of  his 
thoughts.  For  a  month  past  he  had  heard  talk  of 
little  but  Gian  Galeazzo :  enemies  in  Padua,  friends 
in  Mantua  or  Cremona  —  every  one  speculated  on 
Gian  Galeazzo's  future  and  told  innumerable  legends 
of  Gian  Galeazzo's  past.  The  story  was  a  confused 
and  inconsistent  one,  but  it  was  dear  enough  to 
impress  itself  on  John,  and  strange  enough  to 
fascinate  him  completely.  Besides,  he  shared  to 
the    full    our    natural    love    of    investigating    the 


THE   CITY   OF  THE   HUNDRED  TOWERS.  173 

smaller  actions,  possessions,  and  peculiarities  of  the 
great — a  minute  and  genial  inquisition  which  every 
one  indulges  in  himself  under  the  description  of  an 
interest  in  personality,  even  when  he  condemns  it 
in  others  as  a  vulgar  curiosity. 

Whichever  it  was,  Gian  Galeazzo  Visconti  was 
the  man  to  stir  it  irresistibly.  He  had  been,  from 
the  first,  so  princely  and  so  unlike  all  other  princes. 
A  quiet  intellectual  boy,  little  given  to  pleasures, 
much  to  reading  and  thinking;  prudent — even  wise 
— beyond  his  years ;  content,  as  he  grew  older,  to 
sit  out  of  sight,  above  the  luxury  and  violence  of 
his  contemporaries,  directing  them  to  his  own  ends, 
aud  abstaining  from  their  boisterous  enjoyment  of 
the  means.  His  friends  fought  his  battles,  his 
generals  won  them :  he  himself  in  his  impregnable 
Castello  coolly  incurred  the  reputation  of  a  coward 
to  secure  the  continuity  of  his  far-reaching  plans. 
His  conquests  were  only  less  vast  than  his  ambi- 
tions; yet  war  was  but  one  among  his  activities. 
He  founded  the  Duomo  of  Milan,  the  Palace  and 
University  of  Pavia ;  patronised  art  and  letters, 
and  was  a  financier  of  the  first  rank.  His  enemies 
spoke  of  him  as  irreligious,  and  also  as  the  slave 
of  a  superstitious  passion  for  relics.  He  was  a  prey, 
too,  they  said,  to  nervous  terrors :  yet  again  one  of 
his  crimes  was  the  bold  and  unscrupulous  dash  by 
which  he  had  forestalled  his  uncle  in  the  game  of 
beggar  -  my  -  neighbour.  Villain  or  philosopher  or 
both,  he  was  the  most  brilliant  man  in  Italy,  and 


174  LK4HT  IN   THE    EAST. 

held  himself  and  his  family  to  be  the  equals  of 
kings :  his  sister  had  matched  with  Lionel  of 
England,  and  himself  in  early  youth  with  a 
daughter  of  France.  He  was  now  re -married  to 
his  cousin  Catarina,  one  of  nine  sisters  whom  their 
father  Bernabo,  the  Scourge  of  Milan,  had  dowered 
with  two  million  gold  florins  apiece  and  mated 
with  sovereign  princes  from  Austria  to  Cyprus. 
Decidedly  this  was  a  man  to  see,  and  John  was 
now  upon  the  point  of  seeing  him. 

The    moment    came    even    sooner    than    he    had 
expected.      Sir  Thomas's  visit   had  been   arranged 
some   time   beforehand,    and    his   Chamberlain   had, 
as   usual,  preceded   him   by  a   day:   the  Duke  was 
accordingly  ready  to  receive  him  at  once,  and   an 
invitation    to    supper    was    awaiting    him    on    his 
arrival.      It  included  all  the  officers  of  the  house- 
hold, and  Sir  Walter  Manners  understood   that  it 
would  be  a  suitable  occasion  for  full  dress.      There 
was  no  time   to   be   lost,  for  the  Duke's  hour  was 
eight  o'clock,  and  punctuality  was  one  of  his  strong 
points.     When  John  reached  his  room  he  found  his 
portmanteaus  already  open  on  the  floor  and  a  valet 
engaged  in  laying  out  his  clothes.     He  remembered, 
as  he  dressed,  that  this  evening  would  teach  him, 
among  other  things,  how  to  translate  Lord  Kent's 
Latin  riddle :  and  he  regretted  that  there  would  not 
be  a  soul  in  the  Palace  with  whom  he  could  share 
the  pleasure  of  solving  it. 


THE    WHITE    HART.  175 


XXXII. 

When  John  reached  the  large  ante  -  room  where 
the  guests  assembled  before  supper,  Sir  Thomas  and 
Edmund  had  already  been  received  by  the  Duchess, 
who  was  still  standing  with  one  of  them  on  each 
side  of  her  opposite  to  the  door  by  which  the  later 
comers  were  entering.  A  little  behind  her,  the 
Duke,  a  slender  well-built  man  of  forty,  with  a 
proud  face  and  quick  turn  of  the  head  like  a  hawk, 
was  talking  keenly  to  a  group  of  gentlemen  much 
less  richly  dressed  than  himself ;  by  him,  listen- 
ing with  bright  eyes,  was  a  girl  of  sixteen,  evidently 
a  younger  sister  of  the  Duchess,  whom  she  resembled 
and  completely  outshone.  Her  complexion  was  like 
the  smoothest  ivory ;  she  wore  a  wreath  of  brilliant 
stars  in  her  dusky  hair;  and  her  long  dress  of 
delicate  rose-coloured  silk  fell  away  from  a  stiff 
bodice  latticed  with  gold  thread  and  studded  at 
every  joint  of  the  trellis  with  a  single  diamond. 

"Qucerite  lucem,"  said  John  to  himself:  but  he 
could  never  be  sure  whether  he  said  it  before  or  after 
he  heard  the  voice  of  the  Chamberlain  presenting 
him  to  her  Most  Serene  and  Magnificent  Highness 
Donna  Lucia  Visconti.  Either  way,  the  riddle  was 
answered  beyond  doubt;  and  as  he  saw  his  young 
lords  both  turning  restlessly  in  her  direction,  he 
thought  almost  with  pity  of  another  lady  at  home 


176  LIGHT  IN  THE   EAST 

in  England.  Joan  Stafford,  for  all  her  little  air  of 
command,  was  a  gentle  creature,  bred  up  to  expect 
obedience:  this  was  a  child  with  the  profile  of  a 
conqueror,  and  if  she  had  been  bred  in  a  hovel  she 
would  have  ruled  everything  within  reach.  John 
was  relieved  to  see  that  when  the  procession  was 
formed  it  was  Edmund  who  fell  to  her  share. 

The  banquet  of  civilisation  is  generally  a  tiresome 
and  disappointing  ceremony,  and  probably  has  always 
been    so ;    but    there   are   pleasant   exceptions,   and 
Gian  Galeazzo's  hospitality  was  certainly  exceptional. 
To  begin  with  it  was  magnificent,  even  beyond  the 
senatorial  magnificence  of  Venice ;  but  it  had  for  an 
Englishman  more  unusual  elements — a  wider  liber- 
ality, a  continual  slight  novelty,  a  less  impersonal 
courtesy.      The    high    table   was   reserved,  here   as 
elsewhere,  for  the  principal  guests,  but  the  principal 
guests   were   neither    chosen    nor   arranged   by   the 
ordinary  rules  of  precedence.     Poets,  painters,  wits, 
and  university  professors  sat  mingled  with  noblemen, 
bankers,  and  generals;  the  select  company  included 
not  only  Sir  Hugh  Dolerd  and  Sir  Walter  Manners, 
as  might  have  been  expected  from   their   knightly 
rank,   not   only  the   Master   of  the  Horse  and  the 
four  other  chief  officers,  but  Nicholas  Love  as  repre- 
senting  the   learning   and   William    the   Singer   as 
exemplifying  the  musical  talent  of  England.     John, 
as  Marshal  in  Hall,  had  been  informed,  rather  than 
consulted,  about  these  arrangements:    they  discon- 
certed him,  but  he  was  even  more  astounded  to  see 


THE   WHITE   HART.  177 

the  Duchess  and  Sir  Thomas  placed  in  the  centre  of 
the  table,  while  the  Duke  himself  took  an  undistin- 
guished seat  lower  down.  Not  far  from  him,  but  on 
the  opposite  side,  Edmund  was  still  more  out  of 
the  general  view,  among  the  scholars  whose  company 
Donna  Lucia  evidently  preferred.  To  the  young 
Englishman  beside  her  she  showed  an  intermittent 
and  patronising  kindness. 

The  two  hours  which  were  spent  at  the  table 
John  found  to  have  passed  like  a  gallop  with 
hounds;  the  poet  on  his  right  proved,  to  his  sur- 
prise, more  congenial  company  than  the  soldier  on 
his  left,  but  both  were  ready  to  talk,  though  they 
asked  more  questions  than  they  answered.  From 
time  to  time  he  ventured  a  glance  towards  the  Duke, 
and  more  than  once  imagined  that  the  great  man's 
eyes  had  only  just  turned  away  from  watching 
him. 

At  last  the  songs  were  over,  and  the  Duke's  public 
orator  pronounced  a  neat  but  embarrassing  eulogy 
on  Sir  Thomas,  speaking  of  him  as  a  royal  and 
illustrious  prince,  and  proposing  his  health  as  the 
favourite  nephew  of  the  King  of  England.  Then, 
when  the  cheering  had  ceased  and  the  Duchess  had 
risen  to  withdraw  with  her  ladies,  the  door  of  the 
banqueting -hall  was  thrown  wide  open  to  admit  a 
procession  of  huntsmen  dressed  in  green  and  white, 
who  advanced  by  two  and  two,  sounding  their  horns. 
The  last  four  carried  shoulder  high  an  enormous 
platter  of  wood,  covered  with  greenery,  upon  which 

M 


178  LIGHT   IN  THE   EAST. 

rested  a  oouchant  hart  beautifully  made  in  pastry 
of  the  purest  white.  The  bearers  placed  it  upon 
the  high  table,  where  it  was  admired  by  the  whole 
company ;  then  John  saw  the  Duchess  speaking  to 
Sir  Thomas,  and  pointing  at  the  same  time  to 
the  gold  chain  round  the  hart's  neck,  from  the 
end  of  which  hung  a  miniature  dagger  or  hunting 
knife,  with  sheath  and  handle  of  gold  set  with 
emeralds. 

Sir  Thomas  took  the  chain  in  his  hands,  but 
looked  irresolute.  He  had  of  course  seen  many 
of  these  conceits,  or  dishes  of  fantasy,  before ; 
but  the  white  hart  couchant  was  King  Richard's 
badge :  he  seemed  not  to  have  caught  the  exact 
bearing  of  the  jest,  or  to  know  what  was  expected 
of  him. 

The  Duchess  spoke  to  him  again,  with  a  little 
laugh.  This  time  he  drew  the  knife  and  drove 
the  point  into  the  hart's  neck,  with  the  action 
of  a  venerer  killing  the  real  animal.  A  stream 
of  red  syrop  gushed  out  from  the  wound  ;  the 
spectators  applauded  and  chattered,  while  one  of 
the  huntsmen  broke  up  the  hart  and  handed  to 
Sir  Thomas  the  sweetmeats  with  which  it  was 
filled,  for  distribution  among  those  nearest  to  him. 
When  this  was  done  Tom  appeared  to  his  Master 
of  the  Horse  to  be  rather  at  a  loss :  he  stood  there 
holding  the  gold  chain  in  one  hand  and  the  knife 
in  the  other  until  the  Duchess,  with  a  sweep  of 
her  fan   towards   the   group   of  ladies   around  her, 


A   DIALOGUE   IN  THE   DARK.  179 

seemed   to   invite   him    to   bestow   on   one   of  them 
the  gift  for  which  he  himself  had  no  further  use. 

He  blushed,  but  replaced  the  dagger  in  its  sheath, 
and  without  a  moment's  hesitation  offered  it  to 
Donna  Lucia.  She  accepted  it  with  a  cold  but 
very  stately  curtsey,  and  handed  it  in  her  turn 
to  Edmund,  with  an  air  of  indifference  so  absolute 
as  to  seem  almost  childish.  There  was  another 
outburst  of  applause  and  laughter,  and  the  ladies 
swept  out.  As  the  gentlemen  rearranged  them- 
selves and  sat  down  again  to  their  wine  John 
looked  about  him  in  some  bewilderment.  But  none 
of  his  friends  were  within  reach,  and  before  he 
could  move  the  Duke  himself  bore  down  upon  him. 
He  introduced  to  John  a  young  nobleman  of  his 
own  age,  and  flitted  lightly  away  along  the  hall, 
speaking  to  every  group  in  turn,  and  sitting  so 
short  a  time  with  each  that  at  the  end  of  ten 
minutes  no  one  knew  exactly  where  he  was. 


XXXIII. 

John's  new  acquaintance  was  a  lively  youth,  who 
made  the  conversation  rattle.  He  was  an  inmate 
of  the  palace  and  evidently  at  his  ease  in  the 
house,  sufficiently  so  to  offer  John  a  stroll  outside 
the  banqueting-hall,  which  had  by  this  time  become 


180  LIGHT   IN   THE   EAST. 

very  hot  and  airless.  They  passed  out  through  the 
ante -room  and  down  into  the  courtyard,  crossed 
this  and  reascended  by  a  smaller  staircase.  They 
were  now  in  an  open  loggia,  where  the  dim  cloudy 
sky  was  just  visible  through  round-headed  arches. 
As  they  approached  the  end  of  it  John  perceived 
by  the  noises  which  came  faintly  to  them  that 
they  were  not  far  from  the  festivity  they  had 
just  left.  His  companion  confirmed  his  impression, 
pointing  to  a  small  door  in  the  wall  along  which 
they  were  passing.  "A  private  passage,"  he  ex- 
plained; "you  can  return  by  it  at  any  time  when 
you  think  Sir  Thomas  may  be  needing  you." 

He  turned  away  again  to  the  front  of  the  loggia, 
and  the  two  leaned  against  the  parapet  under 
one  of  the  cool  dark  arches.  The  Italian's  lively 
manner  fell  to  a  quieter  and  more  serious  strain: 
he  spoke  earnestly  of  the  Duke's  wonderful  achieve- 
ments and  of  his  great  scheme  for  a  united  dominion 
of  Northern  Italy,  devoted  to  peace  and  the  liberal 
arts. 

John  was  sympathetic,  but  inclined  to  sleepiness; 
the  conversation  sank  lower  and  lower,  into  mono- 
tone, and  finally  to  silence:  his  eyes  closed,  and 
for  some  time  he  was  barely  awake. 

"You  liked  Venice?" 

"Beautiful,"  murmured  John. 

"The  Doge's  Palace?" 

"  Very  fine,  .  .  .  very  fine." 

There    was    again     a    silence,    in    which     John's 


A   DIALOGUE    IN  THE  DARK.  181 

thoughts  floated  him  smoothly  back  to  the  Stanza 
dei  Tre  Capi:  yes,  he  knew  all  about  the  Doge's 
Palace. 

"I   suppose   you    saw  The   Three,"  said   the   low 
soothing  voice  beside  him. 
"Oh  yes,  I  saw  The  Three." 

He  saw  them  once  more  in  the  dreamy  pause 
which  followed.  The  soft  voice  went  with  his 
thought,  like  a  familiar  companion,  a  shadow  of  him- 
self, almost  unnoticed,  quite  unconsciously  accepted. 

"  They  questioned  you  ?  of  course  they  would  wish 
to  question  you:  they  would  be  anxious  to  forestall 
any  alliance  of  England  with  Pa  via." 

This,  too,  John  remembered,  and  also  his  own 
feelings  on  the  point,  and  his  agreement  with  The 
Three.  He  was  not  to  speak  of  it.  He  remembered 
that.     He  did  not  speak. 

"Their  anxiety  was  easy  to  allay:  you  had  no 
ambitions  of  the  kind  for  Sir  Thomas;  you  could 
give  them  your  word  on  it." 

John  was  silent:  he  knew  he  must  not  speak. 
He  began  to  be  a  little  less  sleepy. 

"You  might  even  promise  them,"  continued  the 
voice,  "that  you  would  never  mention  the  subjeot 
or  pursue  it." 

"Quite  so,"  thought  John:  and  the  effort  not  to 
say  it  roused  him  completely. 

"The  Three  would  believe  you,  but  they  would 
not  trust  you.  They  would  have  you  watohed  until 
you  left  Pavia." 


182  LIGHT   IN   THE    BAST. 

John  was  startled  for  a  moment.  "  But  how  could 
they?"  he  asked;  "for  them  Pavia  is  au  enemy's 
country." 

"They  would  employ  a  servant  of  your  own:  have 
you  no  Italians  with  you  ?  " 

"  Only  one,  and  he  is  not  from  Venice." 

"  Where  did  you  get  him,  and  why  ?  " 

"I  engaged  him  at  Padua,  to  buy  for  us.  We 
are  taking  a  lot  of  furs  and  jewellery  home  for 
presents,  and  we  could  not  do  the  bargaining  our- 
selves.    Jacopo  is  doing  it  for  us." 

"  Do  princes  buy  ?  "  said  the  Italian,  with  a  peculiar 
intonation  of  quiet  scorn  which  John  had  not  heard 
in  his  voice  before.  "The  Duke  will  give  you  more 
than  you  can  carry :  Jacopo  is  superfluous,  and 
Jacopo  is  a  spy." 

"  Would  you  dismiss  him  ?  "  asked  John  doubtfully. 

" '  Dismiss '  is  a  good  word,"  replied  the  other, 
laughing  gently.  "Yes,  I  should  always  dismiss  an 
enemy." 

"In  England,"  said  John,  "we  think  more  than 
that  of  a  man's  life." 

"In  Italy,"  the  quiet  scornful  voice  answered,  "we 
think  more  still  of  a  man's  life-work.  What  is  a 
pawn  here  and  there  in  the  game  of  kings  ? " 

The  Englishman  had  no  reply :  he  felt  uncom- 
fortable. 

"After  all,"  he  said  at  last,  "the  man  can  do 
us  no  harm :  there  will  be  nothing  for  him  to 
report." 


A  DIALOGUE    IN  THE   DARK.  183 

"He  is  reporting  at  this  moment." 

"  Reporting  what  ?  " 

"No  need  for  alarm,"  replied  the  quiet  voice,  "if 
he  dies  before  the  gates  are  opened.  But  he  is 
reporting  that  your  young  lords  are  both  in  love 
with  Donna  Lucia." 

"  Then  he  is  blundering ;  Sir  Thomas  is  set  upon 
an  English  marriage,  and  his  brother  is  no  alliance 
for  the  Duke.     He  is  a  younger  son." 

"Older  or  younger,"  said  the  voice,  "an  Earl's 
son  is  no  match  for  a  Visconti.  But  it  is  hardly 
an  Earl's  coat  that  these  boys  wear :  there  are 
possibilities  in  it." 

John  saw  before  his  mind's  eye  the  many  shields 
which  Kent  Herald  had  punctiliously  set  up  in 
every  house  where  they  had  stayed — the  lions  of 
England,  differenced  with  the  narrowest  possible 
bordure  of  argent.  They  had  left  a  perfect  trail 
of  royal  armory  all  along  their  route.  But  that 
meant  nothing. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  he  said,  "  the  relationship 
is  on  the  mother's  side  only :  they  are  not  in  the 
line  of  succession." 

"Possibly,"  replied  the  other,  "but  that  would 
hardly  interest  the  Duke ;  he  will  be  content  to  wait 
and  see." 

"  See  what  ?  "  asked  John,  almost  indignantly. 

"See  who  will  distribute  the  sweets  when  the 
White  Hart  is  broken  up." 

John  remembered  suddenly  that  look  of  embarrass- 


184  LIGHT    IN  THE    EAST. 

inent  on  Sir  Thomas's  face ;  and  then,  that  it  was  a 
long  time  since  he  had  left  the  hall. 

"I  must  go  back  now,  I  think,"  he  said. 

His  companion  raised  himself  from  the  parapet 
on  which  he  had  been  leaning.  "This  way:"  and 
he  stepped  towards  the  private  door. 

John  was  surprised  that  he  went  before  his  guest, 
surprised  too  that  he  seemed  to  be  taller  than  when 
they  walked  together  before.  Through  the  half-lit 
passage  he  followed  him  with  a  nightmare  feeling 
of  strangeness:  it  came  back  to  him  that  his  com- 
panion of  an  hour  ago  had  seemed  a  gay  and 
harmless  youth, — he  longed  to  see  his  face  again 
and  know  where  he  had  been  so  mistaken. 

The  door  of  the  banqueting-room  opened  and  the 
figure  in  front  stepped  quietly  into  the  noise  and 
light — then  turned  and  faced  him  with  the  Duke's 
eyes. 

"I  am  glad  to  have  talked  with  you,"  he  said,  as 
if  to  end  the  audience. 

"  My  lord,"  cried  John  hastily,  "  my  lord,  you  will 
leave  me  Jacopo  ?  " 

"Too  late,"  replied  the  Duke  with  perfect  good- 
humour,  "he  has  been  dismissed  already." 


THE   FOUNDER   OP  THE    CE11TOSA.  185 


XXXIV, 

Jacopo's  disappearance  was  naturally  the  subject 
of  many  conjectures  among  the  Englishmen,  and 
John,  who  alone  knew  the  truth,  had  a  good  deal 
to  bear  during  the  next  few  days.  He  began  by 
feeling  the  man's  death  to  press  almost  upon  his 
own  conscience;  and  he  would  have  confided  his 
trouble  to  Nicholas,  but  that  he  feared  the  revival 
of  a  discussion  in  which  he  had  never  come  off 
very  happily.  Then  as  time  ran  on  he  became 
more  and  more  reluctant  to  betray  the  Duke, 
whom  his  thoughts  were  learning  to  justify  to  an 
extent  which  he  dared  not  have  confessed  in  words. 
Gian  Galeazzo  fascinated  him:  not  by  the  royal 
hospitality  with  which  he  entertained  the  travellers, 
or  the  incredible  richness  of  the  presents  with  which 
he  loaded  them,  not  even  by  his  keen  intellect  and 
personal  charm;  but  by  the  example  which  he  gave 
of  a  brilliant  success  in  personal  government.  If 
John  had  envied  the  Venetians  their  Council,  how 
much  more  must  he  admire  a  ruler  who  had  all 
the  secret  and  unlimited  powers  of  The  Ten,  and 
added  to  them  the  magic  of  kingship  and  the 
driving  force  of  a  single  dominant  will.  In  his 
absolute  sovereignty  as  in  the  splendour  and  refine- 
ment of  his  tastes,  the  Duke  of  Milan  was  exactly 
what  John  and  his  friends  wished  their  ideal  King 


186  LIGHT  IN  THE   EAST 

of  England  to  be.  The  ideal,  of  course,  required 
some  sacrifices ;  but  John  began  to  believe  that 
even  strict  justice  and  the  lives  of  men  are  some- 
times a  small  price  to  pay  for  the  success  of  a 
system  or  an  idea.  On  the  other  side  of  the  ac- 
count it  must  be  entered  to  his  credit  that  he 
continued  to  detest  cruelty  even  while  he  condoned 
it,  and  that  he  would  have  given  his  own  life  more 
cheerfully  than  another's,  in  any  case  where  the  ideal 
demanded  that  a  life  should  be  given. 

This  was  an  inconsistency  which  his  new  Italian 
friends  were  not  slow  to  point  out,  in  the  brisk 
disputations  which  kept  the  ducal  palace  so  much 
alive.  Not  only  John  himself,  but  Sir  Thomas, 
and,  above  all,  Edmund,  were  regarded  by  them  as 
devotees  of  an  old-fashioned  ohivalry,  based  on  ob- 
solete scruples  and  unworthy,  in  spite  of  its  romantic 
charm,  to  guide  reasonable  men  in  a  scientific  age. 
The  three  young  Englishmen  argued  stoutly,  and 
laughed  away  what  they  could  not  answer:  but 
they  all  thought  it  rather  hard  that  they  should 
be  smitten  on  both  cheeks, — for  Nicholas  continued 
to  lash  them  for  hard-heartedness  while  the  Pavians 
buffeted  them  for  the  weakness  of  their  conscience. 
They  found  support  in  one  quarter  only,  and  that 
an  unexpected  one.  Lucia,  with  all  the  haughtiness 
of  the  Visconti,  had  more  imagination  than  most 
of  them,  and  a  warmth  of  feeling  which  was  shared 
perhaps  by  none.  After  two  days  of  almost  con- 
temptuous  indifference,    she   had   revised   her  judg- 


THE  FOUNDER  OF  THE  CERTOSA.       1ST 

ment :  for  she  found  in  these  shy,  naive  young 
Englishmen  more  of  the  spirit  which  fed  her  own 
high  reveries  than  she  had  ever  met  with  in  any 
of  her  Italian  admirers.  From  the  moment  when 
she  saw  through  the  veil  of  strange  manners  and 
embarrassed  speech  that  they  belonged  to  her  own 
order,  the  Order  of  the  Chivalrous  Heart,  which 
has  never  known  of  any  difference  but  one  between 
men,  she  insisted  with  the  childlike  wilfulness  of 
her  character  that  they  should  be  her  constant 
companions  so  long  as  their  stay  lasted.  Fortun- 
ately, in  the  two  days  before  this  change  of 
attitude  took  place,  Tom  had  had  time  to  remem- 
ber a  dearer  allegiance,  and  Edmund  to  digest  a 
hint  from  John  on  the  latitude  allowed  to  younger 
sons.  So  neither  of  them  entirely  lost  his  head, 
though  both  drank  pretty  deeply  of  the  sweet  wine 
that  was  poured  out  for  them.  As  for  Gian  Gale- 
azzo,  he  treated  them  both  with  perfect  confidence, 
watched  them  with  unperturbed  interest,  and  smiled 
in  John's  face  whenever  he  found  himself  observed. 
Their  first  expedition  outside  the  walls  of  Pavia 
was  to  the  great  monastery  which  the  Duke  had 
recently  founded.  It  was  planned,  like  other  Car- 
thusian houses,  in  imitation  of  the  Grande  Char- 
treuse ;  but  Gian  Galeazzo  intended  it  to  eclipse  all 
previous  foundations  of  its  kind,  and  he  was  devot- 
ing the  most  minute  and  careful  attention  to  every 
detail  of  the  work.  The  architect's  plans  were  for 
the  time  his  favourite  subject  of  conversation,  and 


188  LIGHT  IN  THE   EAST. 

it  was  particularly  agreeable  to  him  that  Sir 
Thomas  had  in  his  train  a  monk  of  the  Charter- 
house, whom  he  could  question  as  to  the  arrange- 
ments of  the  seven  monasteries  of  that  Order  already 
existing  in  England.  He  made  Nicholas  ride  by  his 
side,  and  in  his  eagerness  drew  continually  farther 
and  farther  ahead  of  his  other  companions :  the 
Duchess  followed  with  Sir  Thomas,  Lucia  with 
Edmund,  John  next  with  Trivulzio,  the  young 
nobleman  who  had  helped  to  mystify  him  on  the 
first  evening,  and  a  company  of  guards  and  ser- 
vants brought  up  the  rear. 

It  was  a  May  morning,  but  the  weather  was 
still  as  cheerless  and  gusty  as  it  had  been  during 
the  greater  part  of  April.  John  was  struck,  when 
the  cavalcade  passed  the  Porta  da  Milano  and  came 
out  into  the  rain-sodden  country,  with  the  immense 
desolation  of  the  view.  They  were  travelling  along 
a  raised  causeway  between  two  chill  and  dreary 
canals :  on  each  side  extended  a  monotonous  land- 
scape of  marshy  pasture  and  green  rice-fields  gleam- 
ing coldly  here  and  there  with  standing  water;  in 
front  the  road  ran  straight  to  the  horizon  without  a 
bend  or  feature  of  any  kind  to  relieve  its  weariness. 

Only  once  in  this  solitude  did  they  come  upon 
any  sign  of  human  activity  :  a  single  group  of 
peasants  with  a  mule-cart  stood  drawn  up  on  one 
side  of  the  causeway  to  give  them  passage.  They 
saluted  the  party  with  every  appearance  of  good- 
will, and  readily  told  Trivulzio,  when  he  questioned 


THE  POUNDER  OF  THE  CERTOSA.       189 

them  on  John's  behalf,  their  business  and  their  place 
of  abode,  a  village  to  the  north,  in  Milanese  territory. 

"  They  seem  loyal  enough,"  John  remarked  as 
they  parted.  "  I  suppose  they  knew  that  it  was 
the  Duke?" 

"They  have  good  reason,"  replied  his  companion; 
"they  are  old  enough  to  remember  a  very  different 
lord  of  Milan."  He  lowered  his  voice  and  pointed 
to  Donna  Lucia  to  explain  his  caution.  "It  was 
her  father,  you  know,  whom  the  Duke  deposed; 
and  not  one  finger  raised  by  man,  woman,  or 
child  in  all  Milan  to  save  their  beloved  master ! 
You  have  heard  what  they  used  to  call  him  ? " 

"The  Scourge?"  said  John.  "I  know;  but  I 
thought  I  had  also  heard  that  his  successor  was 
severe." 

"Why  not?  He  loves  to  keep  discipline,  but 
he  is  not  capricious  ;  no  burying  men  alive  or 
hunting  them  with  dogs.  He  plays  to  win,  of 
course;  but  we  say  without  flattery  that  he  is 
death  to  his  enemies  and  life  to  his  own  people. 
What  else  should  a  ruler  be  ? " 

"I  agree,"  John  replied.  "You  are  fortunate 
— very  fortunate." 

Trivulzio  caught  the  tone  of  regret  and  hastened, 
as  the  very  fortunate  will,  to  concede  a  fraction 
by  way  of  discount.  "I  don't  mean  to  say,"  he 
continued,  "that  I  consider  any  man  perfect." 

"  Oh  ?  "  said  John,  pricking  a  ready  ear.  "  Where 
is  the  dint  in  so  fine  a  blade  ?  " 


190  LIGHT   IN  THE    EAST. 

But  as  he  spoke  the  riders  in  front  wheeled 
sharply  to  the  right :  the  cavalcade  entered  a  lane 
deep  in  mud  and  broken  by  the  passage  of  heavy 
waggons,  where  it  was  necessary  to  move  warily 
and  in  single  file.  At  the  end  of  it,  behind  a 
confused  wilderness  of  felled  tree  trunks,  wooden 
sheds,  and  blocks  of  uncut  stone,  rose  a  gigantic 
hive  of  scaffolding  peopled  by  a  swarm  of  work- 
men, noisy  and  cheerful,  among  whom  moved  here 
and  there  a  superintendent  in  the  white  habit  of 
the  Carthusians. 

The  hour  which  followed  was  spent  in  the  curi- 
osity, disappointments,  and  discomfort  which  are 
the  common  experience  of  visitors  to  uncompleted 
buildings.  In  its  present  early  stage  the  Certosa 
was  for  the  most  part  merely  a  reproduction  in 
relief  of  the  ground-plan  which  the  Duke  carried 
in  his  hand;  the  walls  of  the  church  and  con- 
ventual build ings  were  but  just  beginning  to  rise 
above  the  foundations,  and  the  only  part  of  the 
whole  mass  which  bore  any  resemblance  to  its 
destined  condition  was  the  square  cloister  sur- 
rounded by  twenty -four  separate  little  cells  or 
cottages  for  the  fathers  of  the  monastery.  Some 
of  these  were  already  inhabited  by  monks  whose 
knowledge  of  building  made  them  useful  super- 
intendents ;  they  had  a  temporary  chapel  of  wood, 
and  made  shift  to  bear  hopefully  their  present 
discomfort,  for,  as  the  Duke  explained  to  his 
guests,    the   regular   life   of  the   Carthusian  is  one 


THE  FOUNDER  OF  THE  CEHTOSA.       191 

designed  above  all  others  to  oombine  the  dignity 
of  a  gentleman  with  the  assiduous  piety  of  a  re- 
ligious. "He  lives,"  said  Gian  Galeazzo,  "when 
duty  does  not  take  him  elsewhere  " — here  he  bowed 
to  Nicholas  —  "in  a  house  of  his  own,  oomplete 
with  oratory,  parlour,  workroom,  and  storeroom ; 
he  has  a  garden  to  himself,  his  meals  are  brought 
to  his  door  by  a  lay  brother,  and  he  is  entirely 
free  from  all  menial  occupation.  Yes,  it  is  a  life 
for  a  gentleman — too  good  for  a  duke."  He  turned 
again  to  Nicholas.  "  What  was  your  recreation  ?  " 
he  asked.     "  Were  you  a  gardener  or  a  craftsman  ?  " 

The  monk  was  slow  in  replying.  John  glanced 
at  him  in  surprise,  and  saw  that  he  was  deeply 
moved.  His  massive  temples  were  dyed  with  a 
deep  flush  that  John  knew  well,  and  his  eyes 
glistened.  "My  lord,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  had 
hoped  to  write  —  to  translate  at  least — we  have 
so  few  books  in  English." 

The  Duke  assented  with  marked  courtesy.  "You 
are  right,"  he  said ;  "  I  recommend  to  you  the 
works  of  St  Bona ventura :  perhaps  you  will  accept 
a  volume  or  two  from  my  library." 

Tom  joined  with  Nicholas  in  thanks  for  this  offer : 
he  knew  nothing  of  St  Bonaventura,  but  he  knew 
the  value  of  such  a  gift,  and  he  was  the  one  of 
all  the  party  whom  the  Duke  had  succeeded  in 
really  interesting  in  his  new  foundation.  He  alone 
had  power,  like  Gian  Galeazzo,  to  make  such  plans 
and    carry    them    out,   and    he    shared    that    play- 


192  LIGHT   IN   THE   EAST. 

fellow's  sympathy  which  to  this  day  makes  itself 
felt  whenever  two  wealthy  men  discuss  the  water- 
supply  or  lighting  apparatus  of  their  country  houses. 
The  time  might  very  well  come  when  he  would 
wish  to  build  a  monastery  himself,  and  if  so,  it 
would  certainly  be  a  Carthusian  one.  Yes,  for  the 
moment  at  least,  he  was  quite  as  much  interested 
as  Nicholas. 

Edmund,  meanwhile,  was  talking  with  the  two 
ladies.  John  saw  his  opportunity,  and  drew  Tri- 
vulzio  a  little  aside. 

"  You  were  interrupted — on  the  way  here." 

"  No  need  to  finish  now,"  replied  the  young 
Italian,  pointing  to  the  Duke,  whose  head  was 
still  bowed  over  his  plans ;  "  you  can  see  for 
yourself." 

"Every  man  must  be  allowed  his  hobby,"  said 
John,  smiling  at  his  friend's  scornful  tone. 

"Not  when  it  is  against  public  policy." 

"I  am  rather  anti-clerical  myself,"  said  John; 
"but  the  Carthusians " 

"  Oh !  it's  not  one  rather  than  another,"  Tri- 
vulzio  interrupted;  "it  is  the  whole  thing." 

"The  Church?" 

"  Well  —  Christianity  :  the  whole  worn-out  suit 
of  clothes,  the  rags  we  are  made  to  hang  out  on 
high  days  and  holy  days,  as  if  they  were  really 
our  habitual  wear." 

John  was  a  little  staggered.  An  interest  in 
Lollards    had    been    hitherto    his    farthest    venture 


THE  POUNDER  OP  THE  CERTOSA.       193 

into  unorthodox  territory.     "What  would  you  have 
the  Duke  do  with  Christianity?"  he  asked. 

"Abolish  it." 

"By  ducal  decree,  I  suppose,"  said  John;  "but 
why  ?  " 

"Because  it  is  impracticable,  and  wastes  our 
time  and  force;  because  it  is  the  support  of  the 
weak,  and  the  welfare  of  mankind  depends  on  the 
increase  of  the  strong;  because  it  is  an  unreal 
view  of  the  world,  and  keeps  us  from  finding  a 
truer  one." 

"Well,  we  needn't  discuss  all  that,"  replied  John  ; 
"the  point  is  that  the  Duke  evidently  holds  a 
different  opinion." 

"Not  he,"  said  Trivulzio,— "he,  least  of  all  men." 

"But  he  founds  a  monastery." 

"Yes,  and  goes  to  service  after  service,  and  prays 
to  saint  upon  saint — that  is  just  what  I  complain 
of:  his  actions  fall  so  far  short  of  his  beliefs." 

John  laughed  outright.  "Very  like  the  rest  of 
us,"  he  said,  "but  upside  down.  I  should  like 
to  hear  his  own  comment  on  that." 

"You  shall,"  replied  Trivulzio,  somewhat  nettled; 
"he  is  coming  towards  us  now." 

The  Duke  and  Nicholas  had  rolled  up  their  plan, 
and  were  moving  slowly  down  the  cloister,  followed 
closely  by  the  rest  of  the  party.  As  they  drew 
near  to  the  corner  where  the  two  young  men  were 
standing,  John  glanced  at  his  companion,  and 
judged   from   his   sullen    look    that    he    meant    mis- 

N 


194  LIGHT   IN  THE   EAST. 

chief.  He  determined  to  forestall  him,  and  stepping 
a  pace  forward  to  meet  the  Duke,  boldly  flung 
himself  and  his  antagonist  into  deep  water  together. 

"My  lord,  will  you  judge  our  quarrel?  One  of 
us  asserts  that  Christianity  is  an  impossible  and 
undesirable  ideal,  and  that  it  is  time  we  gave  up 
the  public  profession  of  a  life  which  we  do  not 
really  follow.     The  other  maintains " 

He  stopped,  and  looked  at  Nicholas  in  some 
embarrassment. 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  appeared  and  faded  on 
Gian  Galeazzo's  face. 

"Yes?"  he  asked,  glancing  from  John  to  the 
Carthusian.     "What  does  the  other  maintain?" 

"If  he  is  John  Marland,"  said  Nicholas  in  his 
most  innocent  tone,  "  he  maintains  and  believes 
that  the  life  of  man  is  only  possible  or  tolerable 
in  proportion  as  it  resembles  the  Christian  life." 

"And  what  does  Sir  Thomas  say?"  asked  the 
Duke,  turning  to  his  guest. 

"I  agree  to  that,"  replied  Tom  in  his  quick  short 
way.  "I  have  never  thought  there  was  any  question 
about  it." 

Lucia  smiled  faintly  in  her  turn.  She  looked  at 
Edmund,  but  Trivulzio  was  eager  to  speak  in  his 
own  behalf. 

"I  accept  what  my  Lord  Thomas  has  said:  there 
never  is  any  question  about  this — until  one  begins 
to  think,  and  then  there  is  no  longer  any  question 
about  it." 


THE  FOUNDER  OP  THE  CERTOSA.       195 

Tom  flushed  a  little,  but  was  silent :  he  was  not 
quite  sure  of  Trivulzio's  intention  or  of  his  rank. 

The  young  Italian  was  quick  enough  to  take 
warning.  He  went  on  in  a  more  serious  tone : 
"  Surely  to  look  frankly  at  the  world  is  to  see  that 
it  is  not  ordered,  and  never  has  been  ordered,  by 
the  Christian  rule.  We  do  not,  for  instance,  love 
our  enemies  or  meet  force  with  meekness.  We 
could  not :  to  do  so  would  mean  the  triumph  of 
brute  stupidity  instead  of  the  dominion  of  the  best." 

Tom  felt  himself  on  firm  ground  again :  he  had 
clear  ideas  on  government. 

"I  am  all  for  the  dominion  of  the  best,"  he 
said ;  "  but  you  are  confusing  two  different  cases 
— two  opposite  duties.  Certainly  we  do  often  resist 
evil  and  kill  our  enemies ;  but  we  do  it  only  as  we 
are  commanded  by  the  Christian  law,  in  defence 
of  the  rights  of  others.  We  who  govern  have  re- 
ceived a  fidei  commissum, — we  are  trustees  for  the 
commonweal." 

Trivulzio  bowed.  "Your  lordship,  if  I  may  say 
so,  has  been  well  educated  for  the  part ;  but  by 
whom  were  you  appointed  a  trustee?  By  yourself, 
or  your  family?  Reason  and  Science  forbid  any 
other  answer.  And  in  your  country,  I  am  told, 
there  are  two  parties  in  the  State,  both  of  which 
claim  to  be  trustees  for  the  commonweal.  Which 
of  them  is  not,  in  its  own  opinion,  resisting  the 
evil  in  accordance  with  the  Christian  law  ?  How 
do  you  decide  between  them?" 


196  LIGHT   IN   THE    EAST. 

Tom  hesitated ;  and  Nicholas  answered  for  him. 

"We  judge  each  party  by  the  acts  and  character 
of  its  members." 

Tom's  face  cleared ;  but  the  irony  which  escaped 
him  was  not  lost  on  his  antagonist. 

"Good!"  cried  Trivulzio;  "the  pot  calls  the 
kettle  black,  and  you  fight  it  out  like  men.  Your 
'  law '  has  nothing  to  do  with  it  after  all :  the 
stronger  wins,  and,  as  I  have  had  the  honour  of 
telling  you,  Christianity  fails  by  every  test." 

John  felt  a  fierce  desire  to  fling  his  glove  in 
Trivulzio's  face,  but  a  better  equipped  champion 
took  the  chance  from  him. 

"N"-n-not  a  bit!"  cried  Edmund,  his  eagerness 
bringing  back  his  boyish  stammer.  "You  go  too 
fast,  b-both  of  you.  I  don't  agree  with  anything 
you  have  said.  It  all  depends  on  what  you  want. 
You  want  life,  and  so  do  I,  and  so  does  every 
one;  but  you  think  death  is  the  opposite  of  life, 
and  spoils  it;  and  I  think  you're  wrong.  I  think 
life  is  not  just  living,  but  giving.  And  I  don't 
know  whether  the  Christian  life  is  practical,  or 
only  ideal  and  impossible,  but  I'm  sure  it's  the 
one  heroic  thing  in  the  world ;  and  I  don't  care 
where  it  takes  me  or  how  soon  it  ends,  so  long 
as  I  have  it.  And  where  can  you  find  any  failure 
in  that?" 

It  was  the  longest  speech  he  had  ever  made,  and 
it  left  him  breathless,  with  bright  eyes  and  the 
blood  well  up  in  his  cheeks.     There  was  a  moment's 


BACK   TO   THE    BEGINNING.  197 

tense  silence :  then  Lucia  moved  towards  Edmund 
with  the  poised  irresistible  sweep  of  a  sea-bird  and 
laid  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders.  He  sank  on 
one  knee  before  her,  and  she,  with  a  gesture  half- 
queenly,  half-childlike,  stooped  and  kissed  him  on 
the  forehead. 

"  You  are  my  knight,"  she  said,  with  perfect  in- 
difference to  the  whole  world  about  her;  "and  if 
I  cannot  have  you,  you  may  be  sure  I  will  have 
no  other." 

The  Duchess  glanced  nervously  at  her  husband, 
but  Gian  Galeazzo  was  as  imperturbable  as  ever. 

"The  Lord  Edmund  has  it,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
oool  decision,  "  and  I  continue  my  building.  Let  us 
go  home  now  to  dinner." 


XXXY. 

John  was  decidedly  startled  by  the  little  scene  in 
the  cloisters  of  the  Certosa.  If  any  one  was  to  be 
attracted  by  the  Light  of  Pavia,  he  had  vaguely 
hoped  it  might  be  Edmund  rather  than  his  brother; 
but  now  that  the  candle  had  moved  so  suddenly  and 
effectually  towards  the  moth,  he  remembered  with 
dismay  that  he  himself  might  have  to  answer  for 
the  result  to  two  great  lords.  His  own  master,  Lord 
Kent,  would  of  course  stand   to  gain  by  it,  but  he 


198  LIGHT   IN   THE   EAST. 

would  not  gain  what  he  wanted — an  escape  from  the 
Stafford  entanglement.  The  Duke — well,  the  Duke 
had  spoken  pretty  plainly  on  that  first  evening;  it 
was  not  likely  that  he  would  allow  anything  to  tie 
his  hands  before  the  true  moment  of  decision  should 
be  reached.  He  would  be  no  more  bound  to  Edmund 
than  he  considered  himself  bound  to  Frederick  of 
Thuringia,  a  suitor  whom  he  had  handled  so  adroitly 
that  the  poor  Margrave  could  neither  carry  off  Lucia 
and  her  dowry  once  for  all,  nor  set  himself  free  to 
seek  a  fortune  elsewhere.  John  feared  the  ducal 
wrath. 

He  need  not  have  perturbed  himself.  Gian  Gale- 
azzo,  having  once  determined  that  this  part  of  the 
game  must  wait  until  other  pieces  should  have 
moved,  looked  with  great  coolness  on  the  escapades 
of  a  boy  and  girl:  they  were  only  expressing  their 
feelings,  and  he  had  never  yet  failed  to  overrule 
feelings  by  policy  when  the  time  came.  But  for  all 
his  detachment,  he  was  not  careless :  the  ceremonies, 
gaieties,  and  athletic  exercises  of  a  brilliant  court 
were  multiplied  so  incessantly  that  the  young 
Englishmen  were  distracted  to  the  verge  of  dead- 
ness,  and  even  Lucia's  imperious  simplicity  found 
but  few  opportunities  in  a  life  that  was  lived  per- 
petually among  a  thousand  pair  of  eyes — the  keenest 
in  Europe.  Finally,  when  the  whirl  was  at  its 
height  the  Duke  carried  off  his  guests  to  Milan, 
where  the  building  of  the  Duomo  and  the  festivities 
of  another  noble  society  engaged  them  afresh.     They 


BACK  TO  THE    BEGINNING  199 

returned  to  Pavia  in  mid- June,  to  find  that  the  ladies 
had  already  gone  north  for  the  summer  months. 
Luoia  had  left  a  ring  to  be  given  secretly  to 
Edmund ;  it  fell,  of  course,  into  the  Duke's  hands, 
and  remained  there  for  some  days.  When  he 
presented  it  to  the  young  gentleman  at  a  farewell 
interview,  he  openly  named  the  giver,  but  at  the 
same  time  handed  to  Sir  Thomas  a  precisely  similar 
jewel  from  himself.  For  Edmund  the  significance 
of  the  gift  remained ;  for  other  eyes,  then  and  after- 
wards, it  was  entirely  confused. 

At  the  end  of  June  the  Englishmen  took  the  road 
again,  heavily  laden  with  the  outpourings  of  Gian 
Galeazzo's  munificence.  Their  journey  was  by  no 
means  over,  but  the  tide  of  its  excitement  had 
now  passed  the  full,  and  every  week  seemed  longer 
than  the  last.  August  they  spent  in  the  hills  with 
the  Marchese  di  Saluzzo,  a  friend  and  distant  kins- 
man of  the  Hollands.  Their  host,  a  chivalrous  and 
cultivated  gentleman,  had  been  present  at  the  joust- 
ing at  St  Inglebert,  and  had  introduced  a  descrip- 
tion of  it  into  his  poem,  "Le  Chevalier  Errant," 
which  was  recited  more  than  once  to  the  company 
by  the  Marchese's  French  minstrel.  It  gave  rise  to 
many  pleasant  talks  and  reminiscences,  but  led  in 
the  end  to  a  difference  which  strained  the  patience 
of  both  author  and  audience.  The  Marchese  believed, 
and  recorded,  that  King  Richard  himself  had  been 
present  at  St  Inglebert,  but  that  he  had  been  cast 
completely  into   the   shade  by  the   brilliant  success 


200  LIGHT   IN   THE   EAST. 

of  his  cousin  Henry  of  Derby.  The  Englishmen 
protested  in  vain  that  Richard,  to  their  certain 
knowledge,  had  never  been  in  France  since  his  acces- 
sion, and  that  Derby,  who  took  part  only  in  the 
later  and  less  strenuous  jousting,  when  the  French 
champions  had  long  established  their  superiority, 
could  not  be  said  to  have  distinguished  himself  at 
all.  They  felt  hotly  about  it,  for  it  was  their  own 
party  which  had  borne  the  brunt  of  the  contest, 
John  himself  among  them,  and  they  had  come  to 
look  upon  Derby  with  a  certain  hostility,  partly 
jealous  and  partly  caught  from  their  elders.  This 
feeling  was  now  intensified  by  the  mere  accident  of 
a  mistake  in  a  poem :  they  ended  by  forgiving  the 
Marchese  and  scoring  their  annoyance  up  against 
the  man  he  praised. 

September  they  spent  in  France — partly  in  Paris, 
partly  in  Picardy  with  the  Count  of  St  Pol,  who 
had  married  Lord  Kent's  sister,  Maud,  and  was 
enthusiastically  devoted  to  England  and  the  king, 
his  brother-in-law.  He  kept  the  travellers  until 
the  middle  of  October,  and  then  accompanied  them 
to  Calais,  where  Richard's  long-projected  marriage 
with  Isabel  of  France  was  by  this  time  in  the  final 
stage  of  preparation.  The  ceremony  took  place  on 
the  26th  of  October:  a  day  of  triumph  for  the  king's 
party,  for  not  only  was  the  truce  between  the  two 
countries  formally  prolonged  for  thirty  years,  but  the 
French  king  bound  himself  irrevocably  to  Richanl's 
interest   when    he    placed   in   his   hands    so   dear   a 


BACK   TO   THE   BEGINNING.  201 

hostage  as  his  seven  -  year  -  old  daughter.  "Take 
her,"  he  said  with  a  touching  forgetfulness  of  his 
royal  dignity ;  "  she  is  the  creature  I  love  most  of 
all  things  in  this  world,  except  my  son  and  my 
queen."  Richard  and  his  friends  accepted  the  trust 
with  real  enthusiasm ;  the  pretty  childishness  of  the 
little  queen  appealed  to  them  not  less  than  her 
position  as  the  sign  and  symbol  of  so  great  an 
alliance. 

On  the  13th  of  November  they  brought  her  home 
to  London,  where  the  splendour  of  her  reception  was 
only  marred  by  the  growling  of  Gloucester — louder 
than  ever,  because  more  impotent. 

Towards  evening  the  two  factions  became  more 
and  more  violent ;  the  noise  of  jeering  and  even  of 
blows  came  to  John's  ears  as  he  sat  in  the  hall  of 
the  New  June,  paying  off  the  subordinate  memuers 
of  his  young  lord's  curia. 

"We've  been  away  a  year,  William,"  he  said  to 
the  singer,  "but  things  don't  seem  to  have  changed 
much  at  home." 

William  looked  tragically  gloomy.  "  No,"  he  re- 
plied, "the  water  shows  no  change  till  the  dyke 
bursts." 

"Why  should  it  burst?  Richard  will  rule  now  if 
he  has  never  ruled  before.  I  happen  to  know  that 
he  had  long  consultations  with  the  French  king." 

"He  had  better  have  talked  with  the  chancellor," 
said  William. 

John's   curiosity    was   pricked.      "Dormans?"   he 


202  LIGHT  IN   THE   EAST. 

asked.  "What  could  Dormans  tell  him  of  govern- 
ment ?  " 

"Nothing,"  replied  the  singer.  "To  deaf  ears  all 
are  dumb :  but  there  was  an  echo  in  the  air  yonder 
— '  though  they  deny  it  a  hundred  times,  kings  rule 
by  the  suffrage  of  their  people.' " 

John's  head  went  up.  "That  is  why  they  so  often 
do  it  ill,"  he  retorted,  and  then  with  a  sudden  rush 
of  anger,  "You  may  believe  me,  my  friend,  when  I 
tell  you  that  the  time  has  gone  by  for  grumblers — 
we  shall  make  shorter  men  of  them  presently." 

Outside  the  uproar  increased.  An  hour  later  there 
was  close  fighting  up  and  down  the  city.  Glou- 
cester's partisans  were  cut  off  and  driven  south 
across  the  river:  they  got  away  with  little  serious 
injury,  but  in  the  jam  on  London  Bridge  the  poor 
old  Prior  of  Tiptree  fell  and  was  trampled  to  death. 


PART    TV. 
SUNRISE 


XXXVI. 

In  April  1397  the  Earl  of  Kent  lay  dying.  He 
was  fully  aware  of  his  condition,  and  made  no 
attempt  to  conceal  it  from  others,  but  not  even  the 
faintest  shadow  of  change  was  allowed  to  pass  over 
his  behaviour  or  his  view  of  the  world.  To  those 
who  knew  him  less  intimately  he  appeared  to  be 
an  edifying  example  of  constancy :  but  John,  with 
whom,  as  his  son's  most  confidential  adviser,  he  had 
several  consultations  during  these  last  weeks,  was 
often  amazed  and  sometimes  scandalised  at  his 
pertinacity.  It  seemed  unnatural  to  him,  though 
Nicholas  assured  him  that  it  was  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world,  for  a  man  who  had  all  his  life 
walked  in  the  ways  of  craft  and  acquisitiveness  to 
go  on  by  the  same  path  to  the  very  edge  of  death 
itself.  Certainly  this  man  never  faltered  or  turned 
aside  for  a  moment,  and  John  remembered  his  last 
interview  with  him  as  the  strangest  of  all. 

By  Lord  Kent's  own  request  he  had  come  to  Fri- 
day Street  on  the  morning  of  St  George's  Day  :  Sir 
Thomas  had  gone  to  Windsor  with  his  uncle,  much 
against  his  inclination,  but  his  father  had  declared 
that  there  was  no  risk  in  his  absenting  himself  for 


206  SUNRISE. 

this  one  day,  and  had  added  that  he  wished  to 
have  an  hour's  talk  with  him  on  the  following 
morning. 

He  was  still  in  this  confident  mood  when  John 
arrived,  and  he  insisted  on  being  left  entirely  alone 
with  his  visitor :  even  Father  Gilbert,  his  chaplain 
and  confessor,  must  quit  the  room  with  the  rest. 
"My  good  father,"  he  said  in  reply  to  an  expres- 
sion of  reluctance,  "  I  paid  the  Pope  a  pretty  penny 
that  you  might  give  me  plenary  absolution  at  the 
most  useful  moment :  I  am  not  going  to  throw  my 
money  away — be  sure  you  will  be  called  when  the 
moment  comes." 

He  made  John  sit  close  by  his  bedside,  and  began 
at  once  to  speak  to  him  in  a  quiet  slow  voice,  that 
sounded  almost  inhumanly  matter-of-fact. 

"It  is  a  very  awkward  time  for  me  to  die,"  he 
said ;  "  the  king  has  laid  his  game  well,  but  someone 
ought  to  be  there  to  see  that  he  plays  it  out ;  and 
then  there's  our  own  share — we  shall  not  get  much 
that  is  worth  having  unless  we  keep  our  heads. 
Tom  is  young  —  he  will  be  too  tender :  and  my 
brother  is  always  too  violent — he  may  make  himself 
too  unpopular  for  promotion.  As  I  cannot  be  here 
myself,  I  must  leave  my  instructions  with  one  or 
two  of  the  best  of  you,  and  trust  that  you  may  be 
able  to  carry  them  out." 

John  ventured  to  hope,  quite  sincerely,  that  they 
might  yet  have  the  advantage  of  Lord  Kent's  advice 
at  the  critical  moment. 


THE   SPIDER'S   LAST   WEB.  207 

The  dying  man  ignored  the  remark  as  completely 
as  though  he  had  not  heard  it. 

"I  select  you,"  he  continued,  "because  you  are 
fairly  capable,  and  have  no  personal  interest  in  the 
matter:  nothing  to  gain,  I  mean,  one  way  or  the 
other.  I  have  taken  care  that  you  shall  have 
nothing  to  gain  :  the  king  has  promised  me  that 
you  shall  receive  neither  land,  money,  nor  knight- 
hood for  at  least  two  years  from  now,  whatever 
happens;  so  as  this  business  will  certainly  be  on 
within  two  months,  you  will  have  no  ambitions  to 
make  your  hand  unsteady." 

John  flushed.  He  did  not  know  whether  to  feel 
more  flattered  or  insulted  at  this  candid  treatment. 
But  the  old  lord  paid  no  kind  of  attention  to  his 
feelings. 

"Let  us  take  the  king  first,"  he  went  on;  "we 
Hollands  stand  or  fall  with  the  king — like  mistletoe, 
with  no  roots  of  its  own,  as  some  fellow  said  once. 
Huntingdon  had  him  disciplined  for  it,  but  it  is  true. 
Well — I  think  Richard  looks  fairly  safe  this  time : 
he  has  peace  everywhere  abroad,  France  is  bound  to 
him  firmly,  and  at  home  things  have  changed  very 
much  for  the  better.  No  one  likes  Gloucester  now ; 
his  grumbling  is  stale,  and  has  no  substance  in 
it.  Lancaster  has  come  over  completely  since  his 
Beaufort  brats  were  put  on  the  warm  side  of  the 
blanket.  Derby  is  a  fox,  but  he  will  never  risk 
himself  to  save  another,  and  when  you  have  done 
with  Gloucester  you  can  put  the  dogs  on  to  him. 


208  SUNRISE. 

"Now,  remember,  John  Marland,  there  must  be 
no  weakness  about  this,  —  no  weakness  of  either 
kind,  no  mercy  and  no  blind  rage.  Gloucester  dies, 
of  course,  but  Arundel  must  die  too.  You  must  all 
see  to  that.  It  is  unfortunate  that  he  is  my  son's 
uncle,  because  remarks  will  be  made,  but  the  fact 
is  irrelevant  and  you  must  none  of  you  flinch.  On 
the  other  hand,  to  go  to  extremes  with  Warwick 
would  be  mere  self  -  indulgence :  he  is  a  hateful 
creature  but  a  weak  one,  and  what  we  need  is  not 
his  blood  but  his  broad  acres.  His  stud,  too,  is 
worth  looking  after — remind  Sir  Thomas  when  the 
time  comes.  Warwick  must  fall  to  his  share,  be- 
cause it  will  look  better  for  Arundel  to  go  to 
Huntingdon,  who  is  no  relation.  Gloucester  will 
cut  up  among  the  rest — Scrope  and  Nottingham 
and  Despenser." 

He  lay  back  upon  his  pillows  and  closed  his  eyes, 
partly  no  doubt  from  weakness  and  fatigue,  but 
partly  too,  it  seemed,  in  tranquil  enjoyment  of  the 
conquests  he  was  planning:  there  was  an  expres- 
sion of  mild  thankfulness  about  his  mouth  with  its 
drooping  yellow -grey  moustache,  and  it  was  even 
more  marked  when  he  lifted  his  withered  leaden- 
coloured  lids  again  and  looked  placidly  at  John. 

"If  you  get  through  this  affair  well,"  he  said, 
"you  will  see  your  way  more  clearly  to  the  next. 
Lancaster,  I  understand,  holds  more  than  one-fourth 
of  England :  no  one  would  raise  a  finger  for  the 
Beauforts,  so  when  once  old  John  is  gone  you  have 


THE  SPIDER'S   LAST   WEB.  200 

only  young  Henry  of  Derby  to  settle  with.  Re- 
member that  I  am  against  your  moving  while 
Lancaster  is  alive :  if  you  do,  you  must  use  a 
stalking-horse — Nottingham  or  Salisbury — but  it 
would  be  far  better  to  wait.  In  the  meantime 
keep  Richard  up  to  the  mark  about  titles :  Sir 
Thomas  and  Huntingdon  must  both  be  dukes  if 
they  are  to  be  suitable  candidates  for  any  good 
portion  of  Lancaster's  holding." 

John  was  as  capable  as  any  one  else  of  distin- 
guishing right  and  wrong.  He  knew  that  the  plans 
to  which  he  had  been  listening  were  a  subtly  woven 
tissue  of  cunning,  greed,  and  callousness,  but  he  was 
not  conscious  of  any  feeling  of  repulsion;  on  the 
contrary,  he  was  tempted  to  smile  at  what  he  heard. 
This  quiet,  shrunken,  decrepit  old  man,  so  near  the 
end  of  all  his  powers,  was  plotting  the  removal 
of  great  landmarks  and  the  foundation  of  splendid 
fortunes  as  coolly  as  a  sick  child  might  plot  the 
rearrangement  of  his  father's  garden.  Historic 
dynasties  were  to  be  uprooted  here  and  new  ones 
planted  there  without  sanction  and  without  diffi- 
culty. There  was  an  air  of  unreality  over  the 
whole  thing,  and  the  contrast  between  these 
gigantic  crimes  and  the  feebleness  of  their  proposer 
was  decidedly  humorous.  Nevertheless  John  con- 
cealed his  smiles. 

"The  Imperial  Crown,"  continued  Lord  Kent  in 
a  musing  tone,  "I  hardly  know  what  to  say  about 
that.       The    Germans     are    plainly    tired    of    that 

O 


210  SUNRISE. 

drunken  sot  Wenceslas,  but  their  offer  was  not  a 
firni  one.  It  was  I  who  got  Richard  to  send  the 
Commission  of  Inquiry.  You  understand  that  it 
does  not  matter  which  way  they  report.  If  favour- 
ably, the  king  gains  enough  popularity  to  strike  at 
once;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  they  find  there  is 
little  or  no  chance  for  him,  they  are  to  say  that 
the  electors  consider  his  position  too  insecure  while 
certain  malcontents  are  at  large.  That  gives  him 
a  pretext  against  Gloucester :  the  Commissioners 
will  be  back  in  a  few  weeks  now,  so  you  must  be 
getting  ready.  Now  let  me  hear  you  repeat  my 
instructions." 

At  that  John's  brain  reeled  :  never  had  any  blow 
so  stunned  him.  The  humour,  the  unreality,  the 
scenic  remoteness  had  all  disappeared  in  a  flash; 
he  had  been  pushed  at  one  stride  upon  the  stage, 
— as  he  thought  it, — and  found  the  play  after  all 
deadly  earnest  and  the  daggers  sharp.  He  was 
silent — the  power  of  speech  seemed  to  have  deserted 
him, — but  the  mere  effort  to  put  this  villany  into 
words  of  his  own  had  suddenly  shown  him  the 
truth.  He  had  looked  into  the  cup  that  he  was 
ordered  to  hand  on,  and  he  saw  that  the  draught 
was  more  than  half  of  it  rank  poison. 

"  Have  I  made  myself  understood  ? "  asked  the 
quiet,  tired  voice. 

"Perfectly,"  replied  John — "perfectly." 
"Then  let  me  hear  you  repeat  my  instructions." 
There   was   no  escape.      "You   wish,"  stammered 


MEN    AND   MOTIVES.  211 

John  desperately, — "you  wish  the  king  to  impeach 
the  Duke  of  Gloucester  and  the  Earl  of  Arundel : 
you  wish  .  .  ."  and  he  went  miserably  through 
the  whole  scheme,  seeking  refuge  at  every  step 
behind  the  phrase  which  seemed  to  divide  his 
superior's  responsibility  from  his  own.  At  last  it 
was  over,  and  he  had  time  to  comfort  himself  by 
the  reflection  that  nothing  could  induce  him  to 
keep  the  plot  alive  a  moment  after  its  author's 
death. 

"Now,"  said  Lord  Kent  with  satisfaction,  "I  have 
explained  things  to  my  brother  Huntingdon  and  to 
you :  you  show  the  more  intelligence,  he  has  the 
more  goodwill.  There  remains  only  Swynnerton ; 
he  should  be  here  by  this  time.  Be  good  enough 
to  send  him  to  me  directly  he  arrives." 

Swynnerton!  John  heard  the  name  with  the 
despairing  rage  of  the  drowning  man  who  feels 
that  he  can  no  longer  bear  up  against  the  stream. 


XXXVII. 

That  night  John  and  Swynnerton  met  for  a  hand- 
shake only,  but  they  sat  together  for  an  hour  next 
morning  in  the  hall  of  the  great  house  in  Friday 
Street,  while  Sir  Thomas  and  Edmund  were  taking 
their    turns    in    their    father's    room    upstairs,    and 


212  SUNRTSE. 

John  found  that,  in  spite  of  painful  associations, 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  in  renewing 
what  had  once  been  so  intimate  an  acquaintance. 
Swynnerton  certainly  was  not  the  old  Roger  of 
the  days  of  St  Inglebert,  but  still  less  did  he 
appear  to  be  the  ruffian  John  had  at  one  time 
thought  him.  He  was  still  short  of  speech  and 
decided  in  manner ;  but  he  had  acquired  the 
urbanity  of  the  man  of  substance,  and  his  peculi- 
arities were  now  rounded  into  a  general  impression 
of  character  and  good  sense.  He  spoke  gravely 
and  dispassionately  of  Gloucester's  position,  and 
John  felt  reassured.  Then  the  old  warmth  began 
to  rekindle  as  he  remembered  that  Roger  had  left 
a  wife  and  a  very  comfortable  home  to  take  his 
share  of  the  risks  they  were  about  to  face,  and 
heard  that  he,  too,  by  Lord  Kent's  arrangement, 
was  to  receive  no  immediate  reward. 

Lord  Huntingdon  passed  through  the  hall  while 
they  were  talking  and  went  upstairs.  Ten  minutes 
afterwards  Sir  Thomas  came  down,  glowing  with 
an  excitement  which  he  controlled  but  could  not 
conceal. 

"Isn't  my  father  a  masterpiece?"  he  exclaimed 
in  the  sudden,  eager  manner  which  he  had  not 
yet  left  behind.  "There  he  lies  dying  by  inches, 
but  he  thinks  of  everything  and  everybody.  He 
has  given  in  about  my  marriage,  and  he  has  got 
my  uncle  round  too:  we  have  just  shaken  hands 
on  it." 


MEN   AND   MOTIVES.  213 

John  offered  no  congratulations  and  Sir  Thomas 
commented  on  the  omission. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  John  explained.  "I  was 
wondering  what  Lord  Stafford  would  say." 

"So  am  I,"  replied  Tom.  "My  father  says  he 
gave  him  a  hint  some  time  last  year ;  but  he  thinks 
it  would  be  better  if  I  opened  the  question  afresh 
on  my  own  account,  without  any  mention  of  him." 

"Quite  so,"  said  John,  and  fell  to  musing  once 
more  over  the  wide  and  intricate  web  of  guile,  in 
the  midst  of  which  this  old  spider  lay  waiting 
helplessly  for  the  last  enemy  to  destroy  him  in 
his  turn.  Clearly  he  had  foreseen  that  the  ques- 
tion of  this  marriage  would  inevitably  be  raised 
once  more  as  soon  as  Tom  had  succeeded  to  his 
earldom,  and  might  prove  fatal  to  his  combinations 
by  dividing  nephew  from  uncle :  he  had  therefore 
won  over  Huntingdon  to  withdraw  his  objections 
at  this  last  solemn  interview.  John  had  no  reason 
to  disapprove  of  the  move,  but  it  reminded  him 
unpleasantly  of  the  greedy  and  cold-blooded  pur- 
poses for  which  the  whole  web  had  been  woven, 
and  his  face  clouded  perceptibly. 

"What  is  there  to  look  so  black  about?"  asked 
Sir  Thomas. 

"  Nothing ;  I  was  only  thinking." 

"Thinking  in  thunder,"  said  Sir  Thomas, — "rattle 
it  out,  man." 

Why  not?  John  took  a  sudden  resolution.  "The 
truth  is,"  he  said,  "I    was    wondering  how  far  my 


214  SUN1USB. 

lord  has   laid    his    plans    before    you,    and    how   far 
he  has  left  it  to  us  to  do — afterwards." 

Sir  Thomas  nodded  gravely  at  the  last  word. 
"I  think  he  has  told  me  everything,"  he  replied, 
"but  of  course  we  shall  talk  it  all  over."  His 
face  brightened.  "He  says  we  have  only  a  few 
weeks  to  wait  now.  There  are  archers  on  the  way 
already  —  two  thousand  of  them,  from  Cheshire : 
the  best  shots  in  England,  and  every  man  as  tough 
as  his  own  bowstring." 

John  still  looked  gloomy. 

"Come,  John,"  said  his  young  lord,  "I  don't 
understand  you.  You  and  I  have  been  hoping  for 
a  war  these  five  years,  and  now  you  look  glum 
when  it  comes." 

"Not  I,"  replied  John;  "I'll  take  the  fighting 
thankfully:  but  what  comes  afterwards?" 

"I  have  no  idea,"  said  Tom  cheerfully,  "and 
upon  my  word  I  don't  care." 

"What?"  cried  John  incredulously,  "you  don't 
care?     What  do  you  look  to  gain,  then?" 

"To  lose,  you  mean,"  replied  Tom,  laughing. 
"We  hope  to  lose  the  sound  of  Gloucester's  scold- 
ing. By  the  way,"  he  added,  "I've  not  heard 
where  we  are  to  send  the  fellow  when  we've 
caught  him." 

John  made  no  reply :  Swynnerton  stretched  his 
right  hand  open  and  brought  it  down  edgeways 
upon  the  palm  of  his  left  with  a  sharp  sound. 

Tom    stopped    laughing     and     turned     to     John. 


MEN   AND   MOTIVES.  215 

"Seriously,"  he  said,  "what  does  it  all  matter  to 
us  ?  We  have  a  good  cause  aud  a  good  fight : 
we  win  gloriously,  and  the  king  reigns  as  a  king 
should  reign.  He  has  never  had  a  fair  chance 
yet."  He  spoke  with  a  touch  of  boyish  enthusiasm 
that  warmed  John's  heart. 

"  Right ! "  he  replied  more  brightly,  "  only  I 
heard  of  other  motives — upstairs." 

"Ah!"'  cried  Tom,  "don't  spoil  it  all  with 
motives.  A  sick  man  has  his  fancies  —  shut  up 
indoors  day  after  day,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at — but  we  needn't  take  much  account  of  them." 

Lord  Huntingdon  here  passed  through  and  called 
to  Swynnerton,  who  rose  and  followed  him  out  of 
the  house.  Sir  Thomas  nodded  after  them  over 
his  shoulder. 

"There  goes  my  uncle,"  he  said,  "with  another 
set  of  motives :  he  offered  me  some,  but  I  said 
'Thank  you,  I  would  rather  take  the  game  as  it 
comes.'"  He  rattled  on  for  some  time  in  the 
same  vein,  to  John's  unspeakable  comfort :  and 
then  dismissed  him  for  the  night  to  the  New 
June. 


216  SUNRISE. 


XXXVIII. 

When  John  returned  on  the  following  morning 
the  change  was  already  over,  and  Sir  Thomas,  now 
Earl  of  Kent,  was  sitting  in  his  father's  seat  at  the 
high  table,  transacting  business  with  the  officers  of 
the  household.  The  old  lord  had  persevered  until 
midnight  in  devising  schemes  for  the  aggrandisement 
of  his  family :  he  had  then  ordered  his  sword,  his 
seal,  and  his  keys  to  be  handed  in  his  presence  to 
his  elder  son,  and  renounced  all  further  interest  in 
the  affairs  of  this  world.  Father  Gilbert  received 
his  confession,  administered  the  last  offices  of  the 
Church,  and  testified,  when  all  was  over,  that  he  had 
never  witnessed  a  more  truly  sanctified  departure. 
He  reappeared  in  the  hall  shortly  after  John's 
arrival,  for  the  purpose  of  expressing  publicly,  and 
at  the  earliest  possible  moment,  his  earnest  hope  that 
the  new  lord  would  not  forget  his  father's  desire  to 
be  commemorated  by  a  religious  foundation. 

The  suggestion  seemed  to  John,  who  was  stand- 
ing by,  to  be  improperly  timed  and  not  altogether 
honestly  made. 

"My  lord  will  also  not  forget,"  he  broke  in,  "that 
this  desire  was  not  an  absolute  one,  but  expressly 
dependent  on  the  success  of  certain  ventures  to  be 
made  at  a  future  time." 


THE    NEW   LORD    KENT.  217 

"That  is  true,"  said  the  young  lord,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair  and  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

"And  I  had  it  clearly  in  mind,  my  lord,"  said  the 
churchman ;  "  but  I  remembered  also  that  this  noble 
house  has  always  been  zealous  for  the  Faith,  and 
that  your  lordship  has  from  very  early  years  ex- 
hibited a  singular  devotion  towards  religion." 

John  ooloured  with  annoyance  and  made  a  con- 
temptuous movement,  but  his  master  received  the 
compliment  with  dignity.  "It  is  very  good  of  you 
to  say  so,  Father  Gilbert,"  he  said,  "and  it  is  not 
for  me  to  contradict  you  on  such  a  matter.  How- 
ever," he  continued,  "I  certainly  had  an  idea,  when 
I  was  in  Italy,  of  building  a  Charterhouse  —  some- 
thing on  the  plan  of  the  Duke's  at  Pavia." 

"A  princely  idea,  if  I  may  say  so,"  replied  the 
chaplain,  bowing — and  preparing  to  retire,  as  if  his 
point  had  been  conceded. 

John  glanced  down  with  disgust  at  the  smooth 
neck  and  obsequious  shoulders  beside  him.  ''I  take 
it,  my  lord,"  he  said,  "that  nothing  can  be  decided 
for  a  month  or  two  yet."  He  looked  significantly 
at  Sir  Thomas. 

"No,"  replied  his  lord,  "but  I  rather  like  the 
notion ;  we  can  be  thinking  about  it,  and  I  will  speak 
to  the  king." 

The  chaplain  departed  with  no  sign  of  triumph, 
and  John  sat  down  at  Sir  Thomas's  elbow.  His 
irritation  soon  subsided,  but  he  continued  to  feel  a 
oertain  uncomfortable  strangeness  in  the  new  order 


218  SUNRISE. 

of  things.  He  had  always  thought  of  his  master  as 
a  boy,  and  regretted  the  pliability  of  his  character : 
it  was  disconcerting  to  find  him  so  altered  by  a  few 
hours  of  authority,  and  already  inclined  to  act  with- 
out his  most  confidential  adviser,  if  not  positively 
in  opposition  to  his  counsel.  But  he  remembered 
that  however  conduct  may  be  influenced  by  tem- 
porary causes,  in  the  long-run  character  will  always 
assert  itself:  it  was  one  thing  for  a  young  man 
just  set  free,  and  at  the  same  time  raised  above 
himself,  by  his  father's  death,  to  take  his  own  way 
with  servants  and  inferiors ;  it  would  be  another 
matter  to  resist  the  steady  pressure  of  an  unscrup- 
ulous mentor  like  Huntingdon.  But  here  again  a 
surprise  was  in  store  for  him. 

"Now,  John,"  said  Sir  Thomas  when  the  last  of  the 
orders  for  the  funeral  had  been  given  and  they  were 
left  alone  together,  "  I  want  you  to  help  me — in  one 
matter  particularly.  I  am  going  to  set  about  this 
marriage  at  once.  My  uncle  has  given  his  consent 
and  promised  to  join  in  making  up  the  quarrel,  but 
I  am  perfectly  aware  that  he  does  it  against  the 
grain.  Still,  the  fact  remains  that  just  now  he 
can't  do  without  me, — at  least  he  can't  do  without 
the  Earl  of  Kent, — and  I  mean  to  have  my  own  way 
while  I  am  indispensable." 

"  You  say  '  at  once,' "  remarked  John  dubiously ; 
"do  you  mean  before ?" 

"Yes,  before  the  row  begins;  we  have  a  month  or 
more." 


THE   NEW   LORD   KENT.  219 

John  reflected.  "  Suppose  Stafford  consents,  would 
you  propose  to  be  married  without  waiting  ?  " 

The  Earl  of  Kent  relapsed  into  his  younger 
manner  for  a  moment.  "I  would  be  married  to- 
morrow ! "  he  said. 

"And  immediately  afterwards  you  ride  Gloucester 
down;  what  if  the  Staifords  take  the  wrong  view 
of  that?" 

"  The  Staffords !    She  would  be  a  Holland  by  then." 

John  shook  his  head.  "  Women  change  their 
names  but  not  their  natures,"  he  said. 

"Some  do,"  replied  Tom — "these  heiresses,  who 
marry  three  times  in  five  years  and  go  the  grey 
mare's  pace  all  their  lives ;  you  are  thinking  of 
Savage  and  Swynnerton,  perhaps;  I  am  not  Savage 
or  Swynnerton,  and  I  am  not  marrying  a  rich 
widow."  He  spoke  scornfully :  here,  too,  the  change 
was  making  itself  felt. 

"Well,"  said  John  in  a  somewhat  offended  tone, 
"  I  have  done  my  duty ;  my  humble  warning  is  that 
you  run  a  double  risk :  if  Gloucester  wins,  we  lose ; 
if  Gloucester  goes  under,  you  may  find  you  have 
offended  both  your  uncle  and  your  wife's  brother. 
What  then?" 

Tom's  face  glowed  with  an  inward  light.  "Then, 
my  dear  John,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
squire's  arm,  "  then  my  wife  will  stand  by  me 
against  them  all — she  has  told  me  so." 

"Oh,  has  she?"  grumbled  John.  "Why  didn't 
you  say  that  sooner?" 


220  SUNRISE. 

Then  he  remembered  how  he  had  stood  in  this 
same  room  a  year  ago  and  talked  of  this  marriage 
with  the  old  lord.  Tom,  like  his  father,  had  kept 
back  something  till  the  end ;  but  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  two  warmed  John's  heart. 


XXXIX. 

Tom  was  thoroughly  in  love,  and  his  eagerness  rather 
increased  than  diminished  in  face  of  obstacles ;  but 
for  the  present  the  obstacles  proved  to  be  insuper- 
able, or  at  any  rate  insuperable  except  by  a  dis- 
regard of  convention  and  convenience  which  was 
beyond  the  power  of  an  ordinary  young  man  of 
twenty-one.  His  father's  funeral  and  the  settlement 
of  his  affairs  kept  him  occupied  from  day  to  day 
without  a  chance  of  breaking  off  to  ride  north  in 
pursuit  of  Lord  Stafford.  Early  in  May  he 
despatched  a  messenger  with  letters  to  Lady  Joan 
and  to  her  brother;  it  was  near  the  end  of  the 
month  when  the  man  returned  with  news  that  they 
had  gone  to  Northumberland,  and  would  not  be  in 
London  until  the  middle  of  June.  Hardly  any  time 
would  be  gained  by  going  after  them  now,  and  in 
any  case  the  storm  was  already  blowing  up  so  fast 
over  the  court  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
Lord  Kent  to  absent  himself  from  the  council  table. 


TTTE    HAND    OF   THE    HARPER  221 

When  at  last  they  returned,  and  Lord  Stafford, 
to  John's  surprise,  showed  himself  not  unwilling  to 
consider  the  match  as  a  possible  one,  it  was  close 
upon  July,  and,  as  the  king  said  to  his  nephew 
when  he  approached  him  upon  the  subject,  no 
weather  for  weddings.  A  week  afterwards  the 
thunder-cloud  burst. 

On  Thursday,  the  5th  of  July,  the  king  gave  a 
banquet  at  Westminster,  for  which  unusually  long 
and  elaborate  preparations  had  been  made.  Among 
the  specially  invited  guests  were  Richard's  uncles, 
the  Dukes  of  Lancaster,  York,  and  Gloucester,  and 
the  Earls  of  Arundel  and  Warwick.  Gloucester  and 
Arundel  were  away  from  London,  and,  whether  by 
agreement  or  coincidence,  both  excused  themselves 
on  the  ground  of  ill-health.  Warwick  had  not  the 
nerve  for  so  dangerous  a  step ;  he  therefore  took  the 
still  more  dangerous  one  of  obeying  the  royal  com- 
mand.  The  first  sight  of  Westminster,  with  every 
gate  doubly  guarded  and  every  street  swarming  with 
archers,  told  him  that  he  had  walked  into  a  trap : 
when  the  banquet  was  over  he  disappeared  into 
captivity  without  any  noise  more  effective  than  a 
mouse's  squeak. 

On  the  following  day  the  members  of  the  royal 
council  met  for  dinner  at  the  New  June.  After 
dinner  Lord  Huntingdon  ordered  John  Marl  and  to 
clear  the  room  of  all  squires  and  servants,  to  place 
a  guard  of  archers  in  the  passage,  and  to  keep  the 
door  himself. 


222  SUNKISE. 

As  he  stood  there  alone  at  the  end  of  the  great 
chamber  and  looked  on  at  the  brilliant  party 
gathered  round  the  table  John  was  suddenly- 
carried  back  to  the  castle  of  Calais,  where  seven 
years  ago  he  had  listened  so  breathlessly  to  the 
discussion  on  the  tactics  of  St  Inglebert.  A  tour- 
nament !  how  small  an  affair  and  how  devoid  of 
consequence !  Here  was  a  kingdom  in  debate,  and 
a  king  to  lead  the  onset ;  yet  great  as  was  the 
difference  there  was  one  element  common  to  the  two 
meetings  —  Huntingdon  was  of  the  party.  John 
consoled  himself  with  a  glance  at  his  own  lord, 
young  and  strong  and  sanguine,  the  picture  of  hope 
and  honour.  Then  the  king  began  to  speak,  and  he 
forgot  everything  and  every  one  else. 

"My  friends,"  said  Richard,  "you  will  forgive  me 
if  I  am  less  merry  to-day  than  you  have  sometimes 
known  me.  Love  is  a  strange  tree  ;  its  fruit  is 
sweet  at  first  and  bitter  at  the  ripest.  I  have 
called  you  together  here  to  say  farewell." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  a  shock  passed  through 
all  his  hearers ;  the  profound  and  unexpected  melan- 
choly of  his  tone  struck  upon  their  nerves  as  the 
first  sweep  of  a  skilled  hand  strikes  along  the 
harp-strings. 

His  lips  moved  as  if  to  speak  again,  but  no 
words  followed ;  he  turned  and  turned  the  gold  cup 
in  his  hand,  and  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  it  as 
though  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  face  the 
sympathy  of  his  friends.     John  felt  the  beads  start 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  HARPER.         223 

upon  his  forehead ;  he  stirred  uneasily  and  saw 
others  do  the  same ;  beyond  doubt  they  also  were 
feeling  that  life  held  some  unexpected  mystery, 
some  great  and  terrible  secret  that  they  were  about 
to  discover  when  it  was  too  late. 

"It  is  vain,"  said  Richard  at  last,  "but  surely  it 
is  natural,  that  now,  in  the  one  hour  left  to  us,  I 
should  think  only  of  the  past.  For  twenty  years 
I  have  borne  the  name  of  King  of  England.  Remind 
me,  if  you  will,  of  my  mistakes ;  but  speak  of  them 
mercifully,  for  if  they  have  never  been  forgiven, 
they  have  at  least  been  repented  many  times.  And 
in  those  years  we  have  known  some  good  days,  you 
and  I ;  we  have  seen  England  pass  from  war  to 
peace,  from  wealth  to  prosperity ;  we  have  loved 
muoh,  and  lost  much,  and  laid  up  something  for 
memory.  And  now  judgment  has  been  given  and 
the  end  has  come :  I  have  held  my  crown  on 
sufferance,  and  at  last  the  sufferance  is  to  cease." 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  slowly  round  the 
table  with  the  wide  sad  eyes  of  a  wounded  hart. 
There  was  still  a  dead  silence  among  his  hearers, 
but  their  amazement  and  indignation  were  upon  the 
point  of  bursting  forth.  Lancaster  alone  seemed  less 
moved;  but  York  was  ashy  pale,  Huntingdon's  fist 
was  clenched,  and  Kent  was  leaning  forward  from 
the  end  of  the  table  with  his  lips  parted  and  his 
breath  caught  in. 

The  king  held  up  his  hand.  "Stay,"  he  said, 
"you  have  not  heard  me  :   it  is  not  of  myself  that 


224  SUNRISE. 

I  have  to  speak,  or  I  should  not  be  speaking  with 
regret.  The  passing  of  a  king  is  but  a  change  of 
names :  the  record  of  the  greatest  of  us  is  nothing 
more  than  the  epitaph  upon  the  tomb  of  a  buried 
age.  Since  I  cannot  rule,  it  is  little  to  me  that  I 
may  not  reign.  But  you  are  men,  with  life  and  will 
of  your  own  :  it  is  hard  that  you,  too,  should  die  into 
the  darkness  like  evening  shadows." 

Huntingdon  could  restrain  himself  no  longer :  he 
had  glanced  all  round  and  found  nothing  to  reassure 
him ;  Lancaster's  frown  was  inscrutable,  York  was 
clearly  sick  with  terror,  Nottingham  seemed  cowed 
with  shame,  and  the  rest  were  all  bewildered.  His 
own  voice  came  in  a  dry  croak  that  confirmed  the 
general  panic. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  if  our  enemies  are  upon  us,  why 
do  we  sit  here?  For  God's  sake  let  us  get  to 
horse." 

The  phrase  was  one  of  doubtful  meaning,  but 
Richard  did  not  misinterpret  the  tone. 

"  Where  would  you  fly  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  bitter 
little  smile.  "What  covert  will  hide  you  from  the 
lords  of  the  forest  ?  We  hear  the  horn  to-day,  but 
their  nets  were  laid  a  month  ago." 

"  The  worse  for  them ! "  cried  Kent,  starting  to  his 
feet;  "treason  a  month  old  is  doubly  rotten.  Sir! 
let  us  hear  it  all :  it  may  be  worse  than  we 
think,  but  I  swear  they  shall  never  make  a  hunt 
of  it." 

"Well   said!"    cried   half-a-dozen  voices  at  once; 


THE   HAND   OF   THE   HARPER.  225 

and  if  feelings  could  be  heard,  John,  too,  would  have 
been  among  the  loudest. 

Again  the  king  raised  his  hand,  but  this  time  his 
look  was  alert  and  his  manner  almost  brisk ;  his 
voice  came  firm  and  olear,  and  he  spoke  in  a  tone  of 
courage  and  good  sense. 

"Let  me  not  be  misjudged,"  he  said;  "I,  too, 
would  fight  if  there  were  still  time;  but  while  we 
thought  ourselves  at  peace,  the  work  of  sedition  has 
been  going  forward  busily.  My  uncle  of  Gloucester 
is  an  active  man  :  a  month  since  at  St  Albans,  a 
week  ago  at  Arundel,  yesterday  in  his  own  domain 
of  Pleshey — be  sure  we  only  hear  the  news  when  he 
has  cut  us  off  from  France,  and  made  certain  of 
what  force  he  thinks  sufficient  for  his  purpose.  To 
capture  and  imprison  his  king — what  is  that?  a 
single  stroke,  a  short  and  easy  business  for  so 
powerful  a  man ;  but  he  must  have  made  thorough 
preparations  before  he  dared  to  issue  death-warrants 
for  all  my  Council." 

He  paused  a  moment,  while  this  astounding  news 
took  effect,  and  then  added,  "  I  have  no  doubt  myself ; 
he  has  arranged  for  the  Commons  to  rise  at  his  signal 
all  round  London.  Hunt  or  no  hunt,  our  enemies 
have  us  penned  in  a  circle." 

"Then  we  must  break  it,"  cried  Lord  Kent,  taking 
the  lead  once  more. 

"Ay,  Sir,"  Huntingdon  joined  in :  "  we  have  the 
Cheshire  archers  and  the  City  troops;  let  us  fling 
them  on  the  weakest  point  of  the  circle." 

p 


226  SUNRISE. 

"  No ! "  said  Kent,  as  quick  as  lightning.  "  Strike 
at  the  heart,  Sir,  where  one  blow  may  save  all ;  let 
us  ride  to-night  for  Pleshey." 

His  enthusiasm  blew  into  sudden  flame  the  anger 
and  alarm  of  those  about  him :  Salisbury  sprang  to 
his  feet  and  sent  his  chair  backwards  with  a  crash. 
A  general  stir  followed,  and  Richard  saw  that  his 
time  had  come.  He  rose  with  great  dignity,  lifted 
his  clenched  right  hand  with  the  gesture  of  one  who 
brandishes  a  sword,  and  cried  in  a  ringing  tone  such 
as  none  had  heard  from  him  since  he  rode  to  meet 
Wat  Tyler,  "  My  lords,  the  Earl  of  Kent  has  spoken 
for  me :  I  strike  at  the  heart,  and  I  strike  to-night." 

In  a  moment  the  meeting  was  broken  into  groups 
and  the  room  filled  with  a  babel  of  fierce  inquiry 
and  denunciation.  John,  who  had  no  one  to  advise 
or  consult,  watched  the  faces  of  the  rest.  He  fancied 
that  he  could  trace  a  line  of  division  that  marked 
them  off  into  one  or  the  other  of  two  parties : 
there  seemed  to  be  one  set  of  those  who  knew 
nothing  but  what  they  had  just  heard,  and  one  of 
those  who  knew  more  and  cared  less  to  speak  of 
it  aloud.  Lancaster  kept  the  king  so  closely  in  con- 
versation that  no  one  else  could  get  a  word  with 
either  of  them;  York,  still  harassed  by  miserable 
unrest,  was  trying  to  approach  his  son  Rutland 
without  attracting  too  much  notice.  Nottingham 
was  speaking  in  an  undertone  to  Derby,  who  evid- 
ently wished  to  be  rid  of  him ;  John  started  as  he 
remembered  having  heard  that  they  were   both   at 


THE  HAND  OP  THE  HARPER.         227 

Arundel  a  few  days  ago ;  if  it  had  fallen  to  Not- 
tingham to  inform  against  his  father-in-law  little 
wonder  that  he  bore  a  hang-dog  look,  and  less  that 
his  fellow -informers  shunned  him.  It  was  a  relief 
to  see  that  John's  own  friends  were  among  the  ignor- 
ant and  openly  indignant  party.  Kent,  Huntingdon, 
and  Salisbury  had  all  been  equally  taken  by  surprise, 
and  it  was  they  who  now  showed  the  greatest  alac- 
rity in  the  preparation  of  the  expedition. 

By  four  o'clock  all  friends  had  been  warned,  and 
the  Lord  Mayor  had  received  the  king's  command  to 
furnish  as  many  troops  as  possible  within  two  hours. 
By  five  the  Cheshire  archers  had  been  collected  and 
equipped ;  and  at  six  o'clock  precisely — the  hour  at 
which  he  usually  went  to  supper — Richard,  in  full 
armour,  with  an  advance  guard  of  two  thousand 
men  behind  him,  rode  up  Tower  Hill  to  the  cheers 
of  an  excited  and  bewildered  crowd  of  citizens,  and 
disappeared  in  a  storm  of  dust  and  trumpeting  along 
the  road  to  Bow. 

With  him  went  the  Earls  of  Rutland,  Kent,  Hunt- 
ingdon, and  Nottingham ;  the  Dukes  of  Lancaster 
and  York  took  in  charge  the  Tower  and  the  Palace 
of  Westminster ;  and  all  night  long  Derby  and  Salis- 
bury were  forwarding  reinforcements — a  thousand  or 
more,  it  was  said,  were  hurried  eastward  every  hour 
As  to  the  enemy,  no  one  had  any  idea  who  or  where 
he  was,  but  he  was  reported  to  have  not  less  than 
a  hundred  thousand  men,  furnished  with  springals, 
scorpions,  and  bombards  of  enormous  size. 


228  SUNRISE. 


XL. 


The  king  rode  fast,  and  easily  outstripped  the  wild 
rumours  that  his  expedition  was  raising.  Town 
after  town  along  the  eastward  road  received  him 
with  a  hubbub  of  surprise,  and  stood  staring  after 
him  as  he  disappeared,  leaving  the  quiet  summer 
evening  to  settle  down  again  under  a  layer  of  dust. 
At  Brentwood,  where  he  halted  for  half  an  hour, 
his  officers  passed  the  word  round  that  he  was  going 
to  Hadleigh,  and  so  to  France ;  at  Ingatestone  the 
story  was  of  Harwich  and  Sluys ;  but  at  Chelms- 
ford, where  he  was  to  lie  till  dawn,  the  further 
precaution  was  taken  of  closing  all  the  roads.  The 
Earl  of  Huntingdon,  after  setting  a  chain  of  patrols 
on  the  north  side  of  the  town,  slipped  off  behind 
them  with  a  following  of  ten  men  to  reconnoitre 
towards  Pleshey :  and  Richard  with  the  rest  of  his 
party  sat  down  to  supper. 

Before  midnight  Huntingdon  returned :  two  of  his 
men  had  knocked  up  a  stable-boy  at  the  castle  under 
pretence  of  asking  their  way  to  Chelmsford :  they 
gathered  that  the  Duke  was  at  home  but  had  only 
his  household  with  him ;  the  crowd  of  men  who 
commonly  wore  his  livery  and  carried  arms  in  his 
service  were  for  the  most  part  away, — holiday  mak- 
ing, it  was  said. 

A    murmur   of    scornful    incredulity   greeted   this 


A   NIGHT   MARCH.  229 

report.  "  No  doubt,"  said  the  king,  "  my  uncle  was 
to  join  their  festivity  to-morrow  :  if  we  detain  him 
here,  we  must  at  least  provide  him  with  some  com- 
pensating pastime." 

His  lips  shut  grimly  upon  the  bitter  little  jest, 
and  he  rose  to  leave  the  table.  "We  start  in  three 
hours,"  he  added,  and  stalked  from  the  room  still 
frowning. 

While  he  slept  the  four  earls  discussed  the  situ- 
ation. Wherever  Gloucester's  forces  might  be,  it 
seemed  clear  that  Lord  Kent's  advice  had  proved 
good :  the  king  by  his  rapid  march  had  placed 
himself  outside  the  circle  instead  of  inside  it,  and 
appeared  to  have  his  most  formidable  enemy  within 
his  grasp.  But  to  make  doubly  sure  a  company  of 
archers  under  Swynnerton's  command  was  sent  out 
to  draw  a  cordon  round  the  Duke's  stronghold,  and 
messengers  were  despatched  along  the  London  road 
with  an  order  for  the  first  of  the  reinforcements 
to  draw  out  to  the  north  as  far  as  the  village  of 
High  Easter,  so  that  the  king's  final  advance  would 
be  secured  against  any  possible  movement  from  the 
west. 

The  sky  was  already  blue  when  Richard  left  his 
lodging,  and  the  sun  rose  as  he  passed  Great  Wal- 
tham  and  halted  his  little  army  in  the  fields  beyond. 
Once  more  Huntingdon  was  sent  ahead  of  the  main 
force ;  the  rest  following  more  slowly  after  a  short 
interval.  Everyone  believed  that  success  was  already 
assured:   but  that  did  not  prevent  excitement  from 


230  SUNRISE. 

running  high  as  the  decisive  moment  drew  near,  for 
it  is  the  stake,  after  all,  and  not  the  balance  of 
chances,  that  raises  the  player's  pulse,  and  here  it 
was  nothing  less  than  life  that  depended  upon  the 
oast. 

This  time,  for  a  reason  known  only  to  himself 
and  his  master,  John  was  to  ride  with  Huntingdon. 
It  had  occurred  to  someone  that  Lord  Stafford  was 
not  unlikely  to  be  with  the  Duke,  in  whose  service 
he  had  been  for  some  years  before  he  succeeded  to* 
his  brother's  earldom :  and  Lord  Kent,  since  he  could 
not  be  present  with  the  advance  guard  himself,  sent 
on  his  squire  with  secret  orders  to  do  everything  in 
his  power  to  prevent  any  revival  of  the  personal 
bitterness  between  the  houses  of  Stafford  and 
Holland. 

John  felt  when  he  took  the  road  in  the  fresh  July 
morning  that  he  stood  at  last  upon  the  frontiers  of 
happiness.  The  hour  and  the  work  chimed  together 
as  he  listened  to  the  steady  rattle  of  hoofs  behind 
him :  the  whole  future  shone  in  the  light  of  this  first 
success,  and  he  exulted  in  the  recollection  that  it 
was  his  own  lord,  his  own  pupil,  who  had  planned 
the  stroke. 

It  added  to  his  pleasure  that  he  himself  had  a  part 
to  play.  He  did  not  believe  that  Lord  Stafford  was 
in  the  castle,  and  in  this  he  proved  to  be  right :  but 
it  was  his  business  to  give  Huntingdon  as  little  time 
as  possible  for  any  characteristic  behaviour  :  the 
easiest  way   was   evidently  to   delay  him   uutil   the 


A   NIGHT   MARCH.  231 

king  should  be  close  upon  his  heels.  He  accordingly 
suggested  to  him  a  caution  that  he  was  far  from 
feeling  himself,  and  his  bait  was  swallowed  at  once. 
Huntingdon  was  apt  to  be  afraid  of  everything  but 
a  physical  contest :  provided  that  the  work  was  done 
promptly  and  remorselessly,  he  always  preferred  that 
responsibility  should  rest  on  any  shoulders  rather 
than  his  own,  and  in  the  present  case  he  was  not 
yet  confident  of  success.  He  advanced  therefore 
with  a  great  show  of  precaution,  and  only  reached 
the  inner  gate  of  the  castle  when  Richard's  body- 
guard were  already  within  a  mile  of  the  place. 

The  household  was  still  wrapped  in  slumber:  a 
drowsy  porter  opened  without  challenge,  and  dis- 
appeared to  call  some  of  the  upper  servants. 

Five  minutes  passed,  during  which  John  watched 
the  sun  rising  above  the  trees,  and  fell  into  a  day- 
dream of  great  splendour.  He  was  roused  by  the 
voice  of  Lord  Huntingdon  close  beside  his  ear. 

"What  does  this  mean?" 

"  This  waiting  ?  "  replied  John, — "  they  seem  quite 
unprepared." 

"Too  unprepared,"  said  the  Earl.  "I  don't  like 
it:  there's  double-dealing  somewhere.  I've  half  a 
mind  to  fall  back  on  the  supports." 

But  at  this  moment  the  porter  reappeared,  and 
was  followed  immediately  by  one  of  the  gentlewomen 
of  the  household,  who  explained  that  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  were  not  yet  up,  but  would  be  glad  to  receive 
Lord  Huntingdon  shortly. 


232  SUNRISE. 

The  Earl  was  still  suspicious  and  sulky,  "Are 
there  no  men  in  this  house  ? "  he  growled. 

The  answer  was  lost :  a  tremendous  blare  of 
trumpets  came  through  the  outer  gate,  and  Richard 
himself  rode  into  the  base- court. 

"The  king,  madam,"  said  John  to  the  astonished 
gentlewoman,  and  she  fled  upstairs  again  with  the 
news. 


XLI. 

Richard  rang  out  his  orders  in  a  sharp  soldier -like 
tone  to  the  officer  in  command  of  his  bodyguard. 
The  Duke's  porters  were  at  once  replaced  by  archers : 
and  the  king,  after  receiving  Huntingdon's  report, 
dismounted  and  advanced  at  a  slow  ceremonial  pace 
to  the  foot  of  the  stone  steps  whioh  led  up  into  the 
house. 

He  had  scaroely  reached  them  when  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  hurried  down 
to  receive  his  royal  guest.  At  the  first  glance  John 
knew  that  the  game  was  won,  for  beyond  doubt  this 
was  not  only  a  guilty  but  a  frightened  man.  His 
hair  was  disordered,  his  feet  shuffled  in  fur-lined 
slippers,  and  the  half-fastened  cloak  which  he  had 
thrown  over  his  shoulders  parted  now  and  again  as 
he   scurried  out,    revealing   a  white  shirt  and    bare 


SUNRISE   AT   PLESHEY.  233 

shins  underneath.  The  spectators  who  stood  nearest 
averted  their  eyes,  either  from  instinctive  respect  for 
a  man  in  dire  extremity,  or  perhaps  from  a  feeling 
that  such  indecorum  must  be  ignored  or  it  would 
tarnish  the  glory  of  their  own  triumph.  John  cer- 
tainly would  rather  have  seen  his  enemy  appear  in 
full  armour  with  a  thousand  men  at  his  back :  he 
had  an  ugly  moment  of  misgiving,  but  it  was  gone 
again  as  he  looked  towards  the  king. 

Richard  had  never  been  more  royal  or  more  mag- 
nanimous :  by  the  mingled  courtesy  and  sternness  of 
his  manner,  the  wide  serenity  of  his  look,  he  seemed 
to  confer  upon  the  dishevelled  figure  before  him  an 
equal  share  of  the  dignity  with  which  he  was  himself 
robed  and  crowned. 

"  Welcome,  Sir,  welcome,"  said  the  Duke.  As  he 
went  down  on  one  knee  to  kiss  the  king's  hand  his 
other  bare  leg  protruded  from  the  open  cloak  more 
ludicrously  than  ever,  but  no  one  smiled;  Hunting- 
don alone  looked  full  at  him  without  disguising  his 
cruel  satisfaction. 

Richard  raised  his  uncle  with  grave  and  almost 
compassionate  courtesy.  It  was  strange  to  see  how 
completely  and  easily  he  dominated  this  rebellious 
old  soldier,  who  had  tyrannised  over  him  so  long, 
threatened  him  openly  with  deposition,  and  hunted 
his  nearest  friends  to  death.  In  the  days  of  his 
greatest  insolence  Gloucester  had  never  mastered 
Richard  as  Richard  was  mastering  Gloucester 
now. 


234  SUNRISE. 

"May  I  ask,  Sir,"  said  the  Duke,  "how  it  is  that 
your  Majesty  comes  so  early  and  so  unexpectedly  ?  " 

Richard  put  the  question  by  with  perfect  self- 
possession.  "If  you  will  make  yourself  ready,"  he 
answered,  "  you  shall  ride  some  way  with  me :  I 
have  to  confer  with  you  on  business." 

Gloucester  bowed  and  was  about  to  withdraw, 
but  Richard  laid  a  careless  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
The  Duchess  was  at  the  moment  coming  out,  and 
it  was  in  this  reassuring  position  that  she  found 
her  husband  and  the  king.  When  she  had  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  steps  Richard  released  the  Duke 
and  turned  to  greet  her.  "  I  am  borrowing  my  uncle 
from  you,"  he  said.  His  tone  was  polite,  but  it  told 
her  nothing,  and  he  continued  to  hold  her  eyes  with 
a  steady  look  that  gave  her  no  opportunity  of  ex- 
changing a  glance  with  her  husband. 

She  turned,  however,  with  an  effort,  and  forced 
a  little  laugh.  "I  must  dress  him  better  before  I 
can  let  you  take  him,"  she  said,  and  held  out  a  hand 
as  if  to  lead  the  Duke  away. 

The  king  laughed  too,  but  far  more  naturally. 
"You  would  dress  him  too  well,  madam,"  he  said, 
"and  take  too  long  about  it:  if  you  will  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  your  company  meanwhile,  I  will  send 
him  suitable  attendance." 

He  cast  a  look  round  the  circle  as  if  to  make 
an  indifferent  choice ;  but  before  he  could  speak 
Huntingdon  thrust  himself  in  front. 

"I  will  go,"  he  said;  "  I  know  him  best." 


SUNRISE    AT   PLESHEY.  235 

The  Duohess  turned  pale  and  looked  at  the 
king. 

"My  brother  is  not  very  neat-handed,"  said 
Richard,  "but  I  daresay  he  will  be  able  to  do  all 
that  is  necessary." 

The  Duke  went  up  the  steps  without  a  word,  and 
Huntingdon  after  him.  To  more  than  one  of  those 
who  stood  by  they  seemed  to  be  mounting  a  scaffold : 
Huntingdon's  sword  clanked  horribly  against  step 
after  step  as  he  followed  close  behind  his  prisoner. 

Only  the  king  appeared  to  be  unaware  of  anything 
strained  or  ominous  in  the  scene  before  him.  He 
turned  with  a  cordial  air  to  the  Duchess,  who  was 
standing  white  and  silent  among  her  gentlewomen. 
"And  now,  ladies,"  he  said,  "  what  have  you  to  show 
us  while  we  are  waiting  ?  " 

Eleanor,  Duchess  of  Gloucester,  was  a  very  great 
lady  and  as  brave  as  a  Bohun  should  be:  also,  she 
knew  Richard  well,  and  had  seen  him  act  many 
parts.  Half  an  hour  was  all  that  was  left  to  her, 
and  she  braced  herself  to  spend  every  minute  of  it 
in  the  struggle  for  her  husband's  life.  She  felt 
instinctively  that  the  lighter  the  king's  manner  was, 
the  more  deadly  must  be  the  purpose  it  concealed; 
her  business  was  to  force  him  out  into  the  open,  to 
dare  him  to  look  at  his  intentions  by  daylight  and 
in  the  presence  of  others.  She  flung  off  her  terror 
with  a  quick  movement  of  resolution,  and  the  colour 
came  back  to  her  face;  her  tone  was  almost  as  easy 
as  Richard's  own. 


236  SUNRISE. 

"  I  fear,  Sir,"  she  answered,  "  that  my  house  is 
unfit  to  be  seen  at  this  time  of  day ;  we  are  not 
such  early  risers  here ;  but  the  chapel  is  always 
in  order,  and  we  are  rather  proud  of  it." 

She  led  the  way  to  a  door  at  the  side  of  the 
base-court;  the  king  followed  more  slowly,  exchang- 
ing a  word  or  two  of  compliment  with  each  of  the 
attendant  ladies  as  he  passed  through  the  group. 
When  the  chapel  door  was  unlocked  he  stepped  just 
inside  it  and  looked  about  him;  the  place  was  small, 
and  he  had  evidently  no  intention  of  spending  time 
upon  it. 

"The  windows  are  fine,"  he  said,  "and  the  wood- 
work :  you  have  no  room,  I  suppose,  for  canopies." 
He  turned  his  head  slowly  in  every  direction  with 
an  assumed  air  of  thoroughness,  and  prepared  to 
move  out  again. 

"  The  jewels  hardly  show  from  here,"  remarked  the 
Duehess,  "but  they  are  good,  I  believe ;  the  gold  plate 
is  Spanish — a  present  from  the  Lan casters." 

The  lure  was  thrown  with  a  sure  hand,  and  Richard 
stooped  to  it  instantly:  he  loved  jewels  even  more 
than  dress,  and  he  burned  to  see  these,  which  would 
so  soon  be  his  own.  The  Duchess  led  him  up  to  the 
altar,  at  the  back  of  which  were  reared  two  tiers  of 
magnificent  plates  of  beaten  gold,  with  a  jewelled  pyx 
in  the  centre.  Immediately  below  this  stood  a  casket 
of  goldsmith's  work,  shaped  like  a  miniature  chapel 
with  high-pitched  roof  and  pinnacles :  it  glittered  all 
over  with  the  precious  stones  of   every  kind  which 


8UNRISE    AT   PLESHEY.  237 

were  worked  into  the  decoration ;  and  many  of  them 
were  of  great  size  and  beauty. 

The  Duchess  made  a  profound  obeisanoe  before  the 
altar ;  Richard  followed  her  example  mechanically, 
but  he  hardly  for  an  instant  took  his  eyes  off  the 
jewels.  She  stepped  between  him  and  the  altar,  took 
up  the  casket  and  turned  to  place  it  in  his  hands. 
His  eyes  were  riveted  upon  it :  emerald,  ruby,  ame- 
thyst, and  chrysoprase,  he  pored  over  them  all  in 
turn,  and  his  fingers  passed  lovingly  along  the  row 
of  huge  pearls  that  topped  the  pinnacles  on  each  side 
of  the  miniature  roof. 

"My  unole  is  not  too  careful  of  his  treasures,"  he 
said  at  last ;  "  this  seems  well  worth  stealing." 

The  Duchess  did  not  return  his  smile.  "  Who  dare 
steal  such  a  thing  ?  "  she  said  gravely.  "  There  are 
very  sacred  relics  in  this — a  fragment  of  the  True 
Cross,  and  some  of  the  Confessor's  hair." 

Richard  looked  as  embarrassed  as  she  had  meant 
him  to  be :  his  peculiar  devotion  to  the  Confessor's 
memory  was  well  known.  He  moved  forward  as  if 
intending  to  replace  the  casket.  But  the  Duchess 
kept  her  position  between  him  and  the  altar :  she 
laid  one  hand  upon  the  reliquary  and  pressed  it 
firmly  into  his  grasp.  "Keep  it,  Sir,"  she  said;  "all 
that  we  hold  we  hold  only  of  you." 

She  spoke  with  dignity  and  self-restraint.  Richard 
seemed  to  realise  that  he  was  losing  ground.  "No, 
no,"  he  said  quickly,  "  I  cannot  take  it  in  that  way." 

"  Then,  Sir,"  she  replied,  "  give  me,  if  you  will,  some- 


238  SUNRISE. 

thing  in  return  for  it."  She  kept  her  hand  steadily 
upon  the  casket  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

The  king  frowned:  he  was  making  up  his  mind 
to  break  off  at  any  cost.  She  saw  that  the  strain 
must  be  relaxed  at  once  or  she  would  fail  entirely; 
her  hand  drew  back  from  the  reliquary  as  she  said 
in  a  quiet  natural  voice,  "My  lord  of  Huntingdon 
has  never  understood  us :  it  is  not  good  for  my 
husband  that  they  should  be  together." 

Richard  looked  at  her  with  the  wide  innocent  gaze 
that  so  often  served  him  for  a  mask.  "  Is  that  what 
you  ask  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  ask  only  that,  because  I  believe  that  it  would 
mean  everything  to  me  and  mine."  She  searched  his 
face,  but  no  eyes  could  have  penetrated  that  mask. 

"Look,"  he  said  quietly,  then  while  he  supported 
the  casket  with  his  left  hand  and  forearm  he  placed 
his  right  hand  upon  it  with  the  gesture  of  one  who 
takes  an  oath,  "I  give  you  my  word  that  your 
husband  shall  neither  see  nor  hear  Lord  Huntingdon 
again  until  he  asks  for  him.  And  now  take  back 
your  reliquary :  a  king  can  only  receive  such  a 
gift  from  a  king's  hand." 

To  this  she  dared  no  answer,  but  took  the  casket 
and  lifted  it  high  above  her  head,  falling  on  her 
knees  as  she  replaced  it  upon  the  altar,  and  remain- 
ing for  a  moment  or  two  bowed  in  prayer  before 
it.     The  oath  must  not  go  unrecorded. 

Richard  meanwhile  was  beckoning  to  John  Mar- 
land,  who   stood   among   the   group  near  the  door. 


SUNRISE   AT   PLESHEY.  239 

"  Bring  my  brother  Huntingdon,"  he  said,  and 
turned  back  to  offer  the  Duchess  his  hand. 

They  left  the  chapel  in  silence,  and  the  door  was 
locked  again ;  a  moment  afterwards  Huntingdon 
came  clanking  down  the  steps  into  the  court. 

"  John,"  said  the  king,  "  I  am  sorry  to  find 
that  your  presence  is  unwelcome  here.  You  will 
leave  me  the  archers  now  on  the  ground,  and  fall 
back  at  once  on  London  with  all  the  rest.  Take 
your  leave  of  my  aunt,  the  Duchess  of  Gloucester : 
I  have  promised  her  that  you  shall  not  come  here 
again  without  an  invitation." 

Huntingdon  took  this  for  a  jest,  and  a  very 
good  one.  "  Good-bye  then,  madam,"  he  said,  "  for 
some  time,  it  appears." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,"  replied  the  Duchess  courteously; 
she  could  not  afford  to  rebuke  his  triumph,  and  he 
was  well  aware  of  it. 

"We  never  know,  do  we?"  he  sneered. 

But  this  time  he  had  pushed  her  beyond  endur- 
ance; her  face  burned  as  she  thrust  back,  and  her 
voice  was  a  fierce  appeal  to  the  justice  of  fate. 

"No,  my  lord,  we  never  know." 

He  lowered  his  eves  as  he  turned  away  to  mount. 


240  SUNRISE. 


XLII. 


John  was  glad  enough  to  see  Huntingdon  go :  he 
was  still  more  pleased  to  find  ten  minutes  later  that 
Lord  Kent  had  been  told  off,  with  Sir  Thomas 
Percy,  the  Steward  of  the  Household,  to  attend 
on  the  Duke.  The  king,  after  giving  this  order, 
started  at  once,  leaving  Gloucester  to  follow  as 
soon  as  he  should  have  taken  farewell  of  his 
wife. 

There  was  a  consideration  in  all  this  that  raised 
the  Duke's  hopes :  little  by  little  the  idea  crept 
into  his  mind  that  possibly  his  case  was  not  quite 
desperate,  else  why  should  his  deadliest  enemy  have 
been  dismissed  and  guardians  so  different  have  been 
appointed  in  his  place  ?  Besides,  Kent  was  not  only 
a  young  man  of  presumably  amiable  character:  he 
was  a  near  connection  of  Gloucester's,  for  the 
Duchess  and  Tom's  mother  were  first  cousins. 

So  the  parting  scene  was  almost  cheerful;  and 
Gloucester's  last  words  to  his  wife  were  spoken 
loud  enough  for  all  to  hear.  "  Keep  close  to  the 
king,"  he  said,  "  and  tell  him  boldly  you  will  swear 
by  any  oath  he  pleases  that  I  have  never  wished 
him  ill  or  been  a  traitor  to  his  person."  He 
mounted,  and  turned  away  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand. 

"And  now,"  he  said  gaily  to  the  lords  who  were 


A   TREATY   OF   MARRIAGE.  241 

waiting  for  him,  ''which  way  shall  we  go?  and  who 
shall  be  our  guide  ?     I,  or  one  of  you  ?  " 

Kent  frowned  and  said  nothing ;  Percy  was  more 
equal  to  the  occasion.  "Nay,  sir,"  he  replied,  rein- 
ing in  his  horse  for  the  Duke  to  pass  before  him, 
"it  is  for  you  to  lead  and  for  us  to  follow." 

The  claims  of  dignity  were  satisfied.  "  Then 
come,"  said  the  Duke,  "let  us  set  forth  in  God's 
name  —  wherever  it  is  your  pleasure  that  I  should 

go-" 

They  rode  to  Hadleigh  ;  dined  there  and  took  ship 
an  hour  afterwards.  When  night  fell  the  prisoner 
was  safe  in  the  Castle  of  Calais. 


XLIII. 

Arundel's  surrender  followed  close  upon  that  of 
Gloucester ;  with  him  fell  his  brother,  the  Arch- 
bishop; and  the  less  important  members  of  the 
party  were  taken  in  one  sweep  of  the  net.  The 
king's  success  had  not  suffered  a  moment's  check ; 
if  he  had  but  laid  and  matured  his  plans  as  care- 
fully ten  years  before,  De  Vere  might  have  been 
living  now.  This  was  the  sourness  in  the  wine  of 
triumph,  and  he  was  seen  more  than  once  to 
glower  ominously  on  Nottingham  and  Derby,  the 
only   two   among    his  present    supporters   who   had 

Q 


242  SUNRISE. 

been  with  the  opposition  on  the  fatal  day  of 
Radcot  Bridge.  But  there  were  sweeter  revenges 
to  be  poured  out  before  these  could  be  thought  of, 
and  the  drinking  of  such  noble  liquor  demanded 
ceremonious   observance. 

The  Great  Council  was  summoned  to  meet  at 
Nottingham,  but  not  until  the  fifth  of  August;  the 
intervening  month  was  spent  in  going  minutely 
through  the  case  against  the  prisoners,  issuing 
proclamations,  preparing  admissions,  and  above  all 
in  arranging  and  rearranging  a  procedure  the  out- 
come of  which  was  not  in  doubt.  In  this,  as  in 
other  crises  in  his  life,  Richard  showed  himself  a 
born  actor,  a  consummate  master  of  pageantry ; 
where  a  practical  man  would  have  been  content 
to  ensure  results,  the  artist  in  him  devoted  even 
more  care  to  the  perfection  of  the  manner. 

His  friends  followed  him  enthusiastically,  but  in 
very  different  moods.  The  elder  among  them  gave 
their  time  and  wits  to  the  work  of  ruining  their 
enemies  and  securing  the  plunder:  the  younger 
ones  expanded  suddenly  like  flowers  in  a  late  hot 
spring;  they  ran  riot  in  a  luxuriance  of  extrava- 
gant colour,  mostly  harmless  enough,  but  altogether 
disorderly.  Their  dress  was  fantastic,  their  heraldry 
overpowering,  and  their  conversation  regilded  half 
the  roll  of  the  nobility. 

Lord  Kent  alone  was  less  entirely  absorbed  in 
all  this  upholstery :  his  gain  from  the  victory  was 
to  be  of  a  different  kind,  and  if  he  desired  an  ao- 


A  TREATY   OF   MARRIAGE.  243 

cession  of  rank  it  was  not  merely  for  his  own 
sake.  "Come  with  me,"  he  said  gaily  to  John  on 
the  morning  after  the  arrest  of  Lord  Arundel,  "  let 
us  go  and  ask  Joan  to  name  her  Duchy." 

John  was  aware  that  the  Staffords  were  in 
London,  and  that  his  lord  had  more  than  once 
been  fortunate  in  contriving  a  meeting ;  but  a 
surprise  was  waiting  for  him  to  -  day.  To  begin 
with,  the  visitors  were  received  by  young  Lord 
Stafford  with  unaccustomed  cordiality.  Then  John 
perceived  by  the  discreet  vanishing  of  squires  and 
underlings  and  the  summoning  of  several  older 
members  of  the  family,  that  the  occasion  was  re- 
garded as  in  some  way  important  and  confidential. 
Lord  Stafford  himself,  though  nervous,  was  evidently 
not  unprepared.  When  the  customary  civilities  of 
wine  and  spices  had  been  offered  and  the  last  serv- 
ant had  left  the  room,  he  began  at  once  without 
any  preamble. 

"I  am  glad  you  happened  to  call  to-day,"  he 
said  rather  stiffly,  "because  I  have  at  last  come  to 
a  decision  upon  the  question  we  discussed  some 
time  ago." 

Tom  turned  suddenly  white  :  hopes  cannot  cease  to 
be  hopes  without  a  pang,  whether  of  death  or  of  birth. 

"You  honoured  me,"  Lord  Stafford  continued, 
"with  a  proposal."  He  waited  as  if  for  some  in- 
dication that  the  proposal  was  still  on  foot. 

"I  did,"  said  Tom.  "I  mean  I  did  make  a  pro- 
posal, and  I  came  this  morning  to  repeat  it." 


244  SUNRISE. 

"Then  I  have  now  the  pleasure  of  informing  you 
.  .  ."  The  measured  tones  ceased  abruptly ;  the 
two  young  lords  looked  at  one  another,  and  a  smile 
broke  over  both  their  faces  at  the  same  moment. 

Tom  held  out  his  hand.  "Thank  you,"  he  said 
fervently  as  the  other  grasped  it.  "You  can't  think 
what  it  means  to  me." 

"Oh,  well,"  replied  Stafford,  "it  means  a  good 
deal  to  us  too,  you  know." 

"Very  good  of  you  to  say  so." 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  Stafford  again.  "  Of  course  I  meant 
that  as  well,  but  I  do  think  besides  having  the 
ordinary  feelings  we  ought  to  do  something  to  wipe 
out  old  scores." 

He  looked  aside  at  the  nearest  of  his  friends  as 
if  in  need  of  prompting.  Tom  seemed  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  something  awkward  approaching :  his 
voice  hardened. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said,  "  we  wipe  them  out  en- 
tirely :  you  give  me  your  sister,  and  the  whole 
thing  is  at  an  end." 

Considering  on  which  side  the  wrong  lay,  this 
was  a  very  naive  piece  of  magnanimity ;  but  Lord 
Stafford  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  say  so. 
He  looked  embarrassed  and  was  silent. 

"  I  daresay  you  would  like  to  see  my  sister," 
he  said  at  last;  and  carried  Tom  away  with  him. 
John  was  left  to  wait  with  the  elderly  gentleman 
who  had  seemed  to  be  in  Lord  Stafford's  confidence. 

His  companion  was  a  fluent  talker,  and  spoke  with 


A   TREATY   OP   MARRIAGE.  245 

great  propriety  of  the  advantages  to  be  gained  by- 
forgetting  and  forgiving  old  injuries,  more  especially 
in  the  oase  of  persons  of  rank  and  influence.  John 
was  inattentive,  thinking  of  his  own  share  in  this 
new  partnership ;  but  at  last  the  constant  repeti- 
tion of  the  word  "advantages"  made  an  impression 
upon  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  I  was 
wandering;  what  are  the  particular  advantages  you 
were  speaking  of?" 

This  was  uncomfortably  direct ;  the  old  gentleman 
raised  his  eyebrows  with  a  conscious  little  smile. 

"  I  am  sure,"  he  said,  "  that  you  have  for  Lord 
Kent  all  the  affection  of  a  devoted  servant." 

"Certainly  I  have,"  replied  John  in  surprise. 

"Lord  Stafford  stood  for  years  in  the  same  rela- 
tion to  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, "and  it  would  not  be  unnatural  if  he  founded 
some  hopes  upon  his  new  alliance." 

The  suggestion  was  revolting  to  John.  "I  am 
sorry  to  differ  from  you,"  he  replied  haughtily  j 
"  but  this  is  a  marriage  we  are  making,  not  a 
bargain." 

"A  marriage,"  replied  the  old  gentleman  blandly, 
"is  always  a  bargain — a  bargain  in  which  a  man 
pays  just  what  the  article  is  worth  to  him." 

Lord  Kent's  return  saved  John  from  a  quarrel : 
on  the  way  home  he  poured  out  his  indignation  to 
his  master,  who  took  it  with  the  light  good-humour 
of  a  happy  man.     "Poor  old  Gloucester,"  he  said. 


246  SUNRISE. 

"I  daresay  he  was  not  the  worst  of  them:  at  least 
he  did  his  grumbling  openly." 

"  But  to  bargain  with  you  at  suoh  a  moment," 
John's  indignation  persisted. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  nonsense,  of  course,"  replied  his 
lord.  "  I  go  my  own  way ;  but,  all  the  same,  I'm 
not  inclined  to  go  to  extremes." 

John  was  intensely  annoyed  at  his  attitude,  and 
determined  to  cure  this  ill-judged  tenderness:  his 
anger  was  none  the  less  hot  when  he  remembered 
that  in  so  doing  he  would  be  carrying  out  the  old 
Earl's  last  instructions. 


XLIV. 

There  are  times  when  Fortune  makes  an  irresist- 
ible alliance  with  Youth.  The  king  had  desired 
to  postpone  his  nephew's  marriage  until  quieter 
times,  but  Lord  Kent  was  now  so  valuable  and 
popular  a  member  of  the  party  that  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  refuse  him  anything  upon  which 
he  had  really  set  his  heart.  As  it  happened,  it 
was  a  lucky  stroke  —  an  impromptu  and  almost 
random  suggestion  —  that  brought  Richard  com- 
pletely over.  A  day  or  two  before  the  meeting 
of  the  Great  Council,  on  a  drowsy  August  after- 
noon,   whon    the    proceedings   to   be   taken    against 


THE   KING'S   WEDDING   GIFT.  247 

the  traitors  were  being  informally  discussed  for  the 
twentieth  time,  Tom  woke  up  from  a  day-dream 
to  find  that  his  own  opinion  was  demanded. 

"  Oh ! "  he  cried  hastily,  "  why  not  pay  them 
back  in  their  own  ooin  ?  they  called  themselves 
Lords  Appellant  when  they  chased  De  Vere." 

He  had  no  need  to  finish  :  the  imaginative  touch 
— the  appearance  of  poetic  justice — was  just  what 
Richard  needed  to  make  his  vengeanoe  perfeot.  At 
the  Great  Council,  therefore,  the  principal  business 
transacted  was  an  agreement  that  Gloucester,  War- 
wick, Arundel,  and  the  Archbishop  should  be  im- 
peaohed  in  the  coming  session  of  Parliament  by 
six  earls  and  two  barons,  acting  together  under  the 
title  of  Lords  Appellant;  and  Kent,  Huntingdon, 
Nottingham,  Rutland,  and  Salisbury  were  to  be 
among  the  number.  Derby  was  not,  and  it  was 
whispered  by  some  that  he  had  refused  to  be  nom- 
inated ;  others  declared  that  he  was  terrified  at 
the  omission  of  his  name  from  a  list  where  even 
Nottingham's  appeared. 

The  Council  over,  Richard  found  himself  once  more 
with  time  on  his  hands ;  for  Parliament  was  not  to 
meet  until  the  middle  of  September.  He  was  in  high 
good -humour  and  overflowing  with  bounty  for  his 
friends. 

"Well,  my  Lord  Appellant,"  he  said  the  same 
evening,  putting  his  arm  round  Tom's  neck  as 
they  left  the  supper-room,  "what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 


248  SUNKISE. 

"Come  to  my  wedding,"  replied  the  Lord  Appellant 
without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"I  had  thought,"  said  the  king,  "that  the  Duke- 
dom should  be  your  wedding  present :  if  you  cannot 
wait  for  that  I  must  give  you  something  else." 
He  beckoned  to  John,  who  was  waiting  to  conduct 
his  master  to  his  lodging.. 

"Marland,"  said  Richard,  with  his  arm  still  on 
Tom's  shoulder,  "  your  lord  is  marrying,  and  I  am  to 
give  him  a  house :  shall  it  be  Arundel  or  Warwick  ?" 

John  was  stunned  by  the  royal  assurance  of  the 
jest :  for  these  were  two  of  the  greatest  castles  in 
England,  and  their  lawful  owners  had  not  yet  been 
brought  to  trial.  Still  he  must  answer,  and  if  his 
wits  failed,  his  memory  served  him,  even  against 
his  will. 

"Warwick,  Sir,  I  think,"  he  stammered. 

Richard  saw  his  confusion.  "  What  is  your 
reason?"  he  asked. 

John  dared  not  say  "  It  would  look  better,'* 
but  he  remembered  that  even  the  old  Earl  had 
thought  so.     "There  are  the  horses,  Sir,"  he  replied. 

"So  there  are,"  said  Richard.  "Those  famous 
horses :  I  had  forgotten  you  were  Master  of  the 
Horse." 

John  bowed  in  silence:  the  king  thought  him  an 
odd  but  clever  fellow ;  to  himself  he  seemed  to  be 
the  sport  of  some  mahoiouf  demon. 


OUT   OJT  THJ£    WOliLD.  24  SJ 


XLV. 

Ten  days  later,  on  the  15th  of  August,  Thomas, 
Earl  of  Kent,  and  Lady  Joan,  sister  of  the  Earl 
of  Stafford,  were  married  in  the  cathedral  church 
of  Lichfield.  The  ceremony  was  performed  by  the 
Right  Reverend  Doctor  Scrope,  the  Lord  Bishop  of 
the  Diocese,  and  was  honoured  by  the  presence  of 
King  Richard  and  Queen  Isabella,  uncle  and  aunt 
of  the  bridegroom.  This  was  the  first  solemnity  of 
the  kind  which  the  Queen  had  witnessed  since  she 
herself  became  a  married  lady  of  seven :  it  was,  in 
fact,  the  only  wedding,  except  her  own,  which  she 
could  remember  at  all,  and  she  took  the  most  in- 
quiring interest  in  the  bride.  Her  Majesty  was 
graciously  pleased  to  weep  at  the  parting  two  days 
afterwards,  when  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Kent 
left  for  the  house  in  Yorkshire  kindly  lent  them  by 
Sir  John  Colville, 

With  them  went  Margaret  Ingleby  5  and  John, 
with  others  of  the  household,  was  already  a  day's 
journey  in  advance.  He  had  many  perplexities  and 
resolves  in  his  mind,  but  they  were  for  the  most 
part  shouldered  aside  by  pleasanter  thoughts.  This 
return  to  the  Yorkshire  moors  seemed  like  a  return 
to  a  happier  age,  where  summer  and  gaiety  were 
perpetual,  and  where  the  greedy  turmoil  of  the 
world  was  hardly  even  a  distant  reality,  hardly  more 


250  SUNBISE. 

than  a  topic  for  an  idle  day's  argument  between 
friends. 

His  mood  was  the  gentler  because  he  knew  that 
Nicholas  Love,  who  now  rode  beside  him,  would  not 
be  his  companion  much  longer.  The  Carthusian's 
absence  from  his  fraternity  during  these  years  of  his 
lord's  youth  was  entirely  contrary  to  the  very  strict 
rule  of  the  Order :  it  had  only  been  made  possible 
by  a  special  dispensation  granted  at  the  royal  re- 
quest :  that  was  in  the  early  days  when  the  Hollands, 
for  the  merest  fancy,  would  use  the  king's  name  as 
freely  as  their  own.  Nicholas'  tutorship  had  latterly 
been  a  nominal  one ;  now  that  Tom  and  Edmund 
had  each  an  independent  establishment  the  last  pre- 
text for  keeping  him  was  gone,  and  he  had  claimed 
his  right  to  go  back  to  his  cell  and  his  books. 

But  for  John  even  his  friendship  with  Nicholas  was 
not  the  chief  landmark  of  the  happy  country  to 
which  he  was  returning.  To  the  wild  wood  and  the 
moorlands  other  feelings  were  more  appropriate — 
feelings  akin  to  the  ardour  of  the  chase,  the  instinct 
to  pursue  without  a  thought  beyond  the  joy  of  pur- 
suit. His  lord,  being  in  love  himself,  had  assumed, 
with  the  egotistic  good-nature  of  youth,  that  the 
intimacy  between  John  and  Margaret  Ingleby  must 
be  of  the  same  kind,  and  even  of  the  same  degree, 
or  nearly  so.  Yet  they  had  seen  but  little  of  each 
other  since  that  memorable  day  at  Arncliffe,  and 
whenever  they  had  chanced  to  meet  they  had  fenced, 
almost  fought,  upon  the  terms  which  Margaret  had 


OUT   OF  THE   WORLD.  251 

laid  down  from  the  first.  There  could  be  no  com- 
promise between  the  supporters  of  contending  prin- 
ciples— between  those  who  upheld  the  king's  right 
as  divine,  and  those  who  would  limit  it  as  with  bit 
and  bridle. 

Still  there  was  this  much  justification  for  the 
good-natured  egotist,  that  each  of  them  found  more 
pleasure  in  fighting  the  other  than  in  agreeing  with 
any  one  else  ;  and  in  John's  picture  of  the  coming 
month  the  tall,  proud  figure  of  a  young  Diana  was 
for  ever  flitting  under  hazel  arches  or  springing 
across  the  long  roll  of  the  heather. 

A  week  later  the  vision  was  onoe  more  a  reality. 
The  newly-wedded  lovers  were  eager  to  revisit  the 
scene  of  their  first  meeting.  On  the  morning  after 
their  arrival  at  Arncliffe  Tom  and  the  two  ladies 
started  up  the  steep,  overhanging  slope  before  the 
heat  of  the  day  had  begun,  leaving  John  and 
Nicholas  to  walk  to  Bordelby.  where  Edmund  was 
hawking,  and  where  the  whole  party  was  to  meet 
for  their  midday  meal.  At  the  parting  of  the  ways 
Margaret  lingered  a  moment  behind  her  companions. 
"  I  shall  not  follow  them  long,"  she  said  to  John. 
"They  don't  want  me." 

John  nodded.  "But  you  will  be  with  us  at 
dinner?" 

"I  think  not;  but,  of  course,"  she  added  with  her 
haughty  little  air  of  mock  -  humility,  "I  shall  do 
whatever  they  bid  me."  Her  eyes,  like  a  fountain, 
tossed  up  a  flashing  spray  of  laughter ;    as    it   fell 


252  SUNRISE. 

again  she  broke  away  and  went  quickly  up  the  wood 
with  the  light  step  that  he  remembered.  He  stood 
for  a  moment  staring  after  her  in  a  kind  of  tremb- 
ling wonder.  Look,  voice,  movement — they  were  all 
as  he  had  known  them  before.  What,  then,  was 
new,  and  why  had  this  meaningless  little  incident 
taken  on  the  clear,  inexplicable  significance  of  a 
scene  in  dreamland  ?  Was  the  magic  in  the  summer 
morning,  or  in  the  place  and  its  associations? 

He  walked  beside  his  friend  in  silence :  they  took 
the  shadier  way  through  the  centre  of  the  wood,  and 
paced  the  green  aisles  slowly,  enjoying  once  more 
the  dappled  gold  on  the  mossy  path  at  their  feet. 

"John,"  said  the  monk  at  last,  "you  have  often 
confessed  to  me :  I  will  confess  to  you.  My  contempt 
for  earthly  beauty  is  not  so  perfect  as  it  has  been." 

He  stopped,  and  lifted  his  hand  towards  the  long 
vista  of  the  wood. 

"You  feel  it  too?"  asked  John;  "something 
disturbing,  something  almost  terrible?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  —  something  that  heals  and 
pacifies.  It  may  be  a  delusion  of  the  Evil  One,  but 
I  feel  that  here  I  could  both  worship  and  work  as 
I  have  never  done  elsewhere." 

John  looked  down  as  if  to  search  his  own  mind. 
"Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "it  is  a  good  place;  we  are 
all  at  our  best  here :  but  you  find  it  pacifying  and  I 
find  it  agitating  to  be  uplifted." 

They  walked  on  more  rapidly.  When  they  came 
to  the  ridge  above  the  hollow  dell  and  looked  down 


OUT   OP  THE    WORLD.  253 

upon  the  hunting  lodge  of  Bordelby,  the  monk 
stopped  again.  "It  is  a  good  place,"  he  murmured. 
"There  is  none  like  it." 

John  replied  to  the  thought  rather  than  the 
words.  "I  could  not  stay  here  long:  it  is  out  of 
the  world,  out  of  life  altogether." 

The  monk  bowed  his  head,  and  his  neck  and 
temples  were  dyed  with  a  flush  that  his  companion 
knew  well.  "J  am  going  out  of  the  world,  John," 
he  said  in  a  low  restrained  voice ;  "am  I  going 
out  of  life  ?  " 

John's  lips  suddenly  trembled.  "You  are  going 
out  of  my  life,  Nicholas." 

The  monk  did  not  stir;  his  figure  had  become 
almost  rigid,  his  eyes  were  still  downcast  and  closed, 
and  his  hands  were  clasped  under  his  white  scapular, 
where  his  rosary  made  a  faint,  cold,  rattling  sound. 
John  turned  from  him  in  despair  and  flung  himself 
down  upon  the  ground.  There  he  lay  for  a  long 
time,  hidden  among  the  tall  bracken,  plucking  the 
grass  bents  and  biting  them  one  after  another,  as 
he  mused  rebelliously  on  the  mutual  hindrance  of 
life  and  religion.  When  at  last  he  was  roused  by 
the  sound  of  footsteps  moving  near  him,  and  lifted 
his  head  above  the  deep  tangle  of  the  fern,  Nicholas 
had  disappeared,  and  Margaret  Ingleby  was  standing 
in  the  place  where  he  had  been. 


254  SUNKISE. 


XL  VI. 


John  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Margaret!"  he  cried 
in  astonishment. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  shortly.  "They  would  have 
it,  so  we  are  both  disappointed." 

"Disappointed?" 

"You  expected  to  see  someone  else,  I  hoped  to  be 
alone." 

He  saw  that  she  was  not  in  her  usual  mood  of 
combative  gaiety ;  there  was  something  almost  bitter 
in  the  sincerity  of  her  tone. 

"If   I   am   in   your   way "   he  began,  with   a 

pretence  of  leaving  her. 

"No!"  she  returned  imperiously.  "It  is  a  mercy 
to  find  someone  to  speak  to  who  is  not  a  lord. 
Besides,"  she  added,  "you  are  an  enemy,  and  just 
now  I  would  rather  talk  to  an  enemy  than  a  friend." 

He  thought  he  detected  a  returning  gleam. 

"Shall  we  fight  standing  or  sitting?"  he  asked. 

The  gleam  broadened  as  she  sat  down,  but  it  died 
away  again.  There  was  a  silence  which  seemed 
long  to  John,  but  he  spent  it  in  watching  her 
face,  which  was  steadily  turned  towards  the  little 
plateau  of  Bordelby  below  them.  In  the  level 
meadow  the  hay  was  being  carried  ;  the  garden 
fence  beyond  was  topped  by  the  tall  yellow  heads 
of  the  great  mullein,  and  from  the    house   itself   a 


A  woman's  TEAKS.  255 

thin  oolumn  of  smoke  ascended  like  a  faint  blue 
mist,  only  visible  against  the  dark  green  of  the 
oakwood,  but  giving  the  final  touch  of  homeliness 
to  the  little  picture. 

Presently  she  spoke.  "Is  this  place  so  much 
to  Dom  Nicholas?" 

The  deep  ring  of  her  voice  always  stirred  John : 
now  that  it  chimed  so  with  his  latest  thoughts  it 
startled  him. 

"It  is  much  to  us  all,"  he  replied  evasively. 

"  So  much  that  you  give  it  away — and  to  monks ! " 

This  time  there  was  no  mistaking  the  bitterness 
of  her  mood :  and  he  discovered  at  the  same  moment 
that  he  could  not  endure  bitterness  between  himself 
and  her.  Hitherto  her  splendid  self-reliance  and 
audacity  had  always  enabled  him  to  play  fast  and 
loose  with  the  manners  of  chivalry,  the  conventional 
code  which  had  trained  him  from  boyhood  to  be 
the  humble  servant  of  all  ladies;  for  her  pleasure 
and  his  own  he  had  treated  her  as  an  adversary 
and  an  equal.  But  now  she  was  in  pain,  and 
whatever  the  cause,  she  must  be  protected :  saved 
from  such  new  wounds  as  might  come  from  her 
own  passion  or  from  any  word  of  his. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  ? "  he  asked.  "  I  know 
nothing  of  this." 

"  Ah !  then  it  was  really  a  sudden  fancy  :  but 
only  the  more  insolent  for  that !  Yes,  I  will  tell 
you :  your  master  and  mine  has  conceived  the  pious 
idea  of  dedicating  a  monastery  to  Saint  Nicholas — 


256  fUJNTMRE. 

down  there  "  Her  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  the 
plateau  below. 

"Oh!"  said  John  as  if  relieved  "The  idlest  of 
fancies,  it  must  be :  of  course  he  knows  the  title 
is  in  dispute — he  can't  deal  with  anything  but  the 
house." 

"The  house!     It   vvould  make  a  single  cell!" 

Her  scorn  was  justified :  John  remembered  the 
scale  of  the  great  cloister  at  Pavia. 

"That  is  quite  true,"  he  said;  "if  the  idea  were 
ever  to  be  seriously  thought  of,  your  father's  con- 
sent must  be  asked  first — he  would  have  to  be  a 
co-founder." 

"Why  stay  for  that?"  she  retorted.  "It  is  the 
fashion  now  to  take,  not  to  ask,  and  who  is  more 
in  the  fashion  than  the  Earl  of  Kent  ? " 

John  was  hurt.  "He  does  not  break  the  law," 
he  said  as  gently  as  he  could. 

"There  is  no  law  to  break,"  she  cried.  "Your 
Lords  Appellant  are  above  the  law." 

"They  are  not  above  the  king." 

The  flame  leaped  higher  as  this  name  was  flung 
upon  it. 

"The  king  !  What  have  the  king  and  law  to  do 
with  one  another  ?  Which  of  them  gave  Warwick's 
house  to  his  enemy  before  Warwick  had  been  heard 
in  his  own  defence  ?  " 

The  thrust  was  a  hard  one,  but  happily  John 
was   not   unprepared   to  meet  it.      He   had  himself 


A  woman's  TEARS.  257 

been  astonished  by  this  offer  of  Richard's  and  had 
thought  the  matter  out  on  the  ride  northward. 

"I  know,"  he  replied,  in  a  grave  and  unconten- 
tious  tone;  "the  same  thing  occurred  to  me  too: 
but  let  us  not  be  hasty.  We  are  not  in  possession 
of  the  facts,  and  the  king  is,  or  believes  that  lie  is: 
his  conscience  has  nothing  to  do  with  our  doubts. 
That  is  the  advantage  of  any  form  of  absolute 
government,  as  I  saw  when  I  was  in  Italy :  a 
Council  of  Ten,  or  better  still,  a  single  ruler  like 
Gian  Galeazzo,  can  judge  in  secret,  and  act  with 
certainty :  you  can  never  do  either  with  parlia- 
ments or  courts  of  law.  We  all  know  what  lawyers' 
justice  is,  and  how  little  two  contending  parties  in 
the  State  weigh  the  merits  of  any  case.  The  king, 
as  we  think,  should  be  above  party,  and  above 
technicalities:  he  should  be  perfectly  informed  and 
perfectly  irresponsible.  Then  you  get,  not  legal  jus- 
tice, but  real  justice;  in  a  case  like  Warwick's " 

he  stopped,  and  looked  at  Margaret ;  but  she  turned 
her  face  still  farther  away  from  him. 

"Perhaps  I  have  said  too  much,"  he  continued; 
"but  I  wanted  to  show  you  that  we  do  what 
we  do  deliberately  —  from  conviction,  not  from 
weakness." 

She  was  still  silent,  with  averted  eyes :  under  the 
strain  his  caution  began  to  fail  him  a  little. 

"  You  think  I  am  playing  the  advocate  ;  well — 
think  what   you   like   of  me,  of   all  the  rest  of  us; 

B 


258  STJNRISE. 

but  don't  misjudge  the  man  who  has  married  your 
friend.  I  assure  you  most  positively — I  swear  to 
you  by  the  life  of  my  soul — that  he  would  never 
touch  a  yard  of  any  man's  land  unjustly,  or  accept 
the  spoils  of  the  innocent.  If  he  takes  Warwick's 
house,  it  is  because  Warwick  is  guilty.  I  know 
him  as  no  one  else  does,  and  I  cannot  be  wrong 
about  that.  You  might  as  well  accuse  Saint 
George." 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  he  saw  that  she  was 
sobbing. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  cried  in  despair.  "  Have  I  spoken 
hotly — what  a  brute  I  am — or  was  it  what  I  said 
about  Warwick?" 

She  dried  part  of  her  tears,  and  swallowed  the 
rest :  then  looked  round  at  him  all  radiant. 

"It  was  what  you  said  about  everything,"  she 
said  with  one  more  little  sob  of  content,  "and  I 
wish  you  would  always  speak  hotly." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  still  with  soft  eyes  of 
gratitude  upon  him,  and  held  out  her  hand.  He 
fell  upon  his  knees  and  kissed  it  passionately;  for 
he,  too,  was  stirred  beyond  control. 


FROM   WESTMINSTER  TO  TOWER  HILL.  259 


XL  VII. 

John  had  made  a  fortunate  stroke  as  well  as  a  bold 
one :  his  confidence  in  his  lord  not  only  advanced 
him  with  Margaret,  it  was  completely  justified  by 
the  event.  When  the  business  of  arranging  for  a 
foundation  at  Bordelby  came  before  the  lawyers 
they  advised  that  the  title  to  the  property  was 
not  good  enough  to  proceed  upon,  and  Lord  Kent 
accordingly  invited  the  Ingleby  family  to  become 
joint-patrons  with  him  of  the  proposed  monastery. 
To  this  they  readily  consented;  their  interest  was 
divided  among  a  number  of  relations,  the  cost  to 
each  would  be  but  small,  and  the  honour  consider- 
able. Sir  John  Ingleby,  the  head  of  the  house, 
though  in  general  opposed  to  the  king's  party,  was 
a  devoted  adherent  of  the  Staffords,  and  could  refuse 
nothing  to  the  new  Lady  Kent.  The  project,  there- 
fore, needed  only  the  royal  licence,  and  as  this  was 
to  be  had  for  the  asking  the  work  was  put  in 
hand  at  once. 

The  second  of  John's  conjectures  was  even  more 
signally  confirmed  by  Warwick's  complete  admis- 
sion of  his  own  and  his  fellow- conspirators'  guilt. 
Parliament  had  been  summoned  for  September  17, 
and  the  Lords  had  been  warned  to  come  armed 
and  attended.  They  met,  for  the  first  time,  under 
the  roof  of  the  Great  Hall  of  Westminster,  which 


260  SUNRISE. 

had  just  been  rebuilt  and  enlarged:  but  neither 
within  nor  without  was  there  any  room  to  spare. 
London  and  Westminster  were  crowded  beyond  all 
experience :  every  one  of  the  king's  party  had 
brought  a  small  army  with  him,  and  the  bulk  of 
them  —  horse,  foot,  and  followers  —  were  quartered 
by  hundreds  in  every  village  within  a  dozen  miles 
of  the  capital.  Richard  himself  lay  at  Eltham, 
surrounded  by  his  new  bodyguard  of  two  thousand 
Cheshire  archers.  These  men,  the  most  loyal  and 
disciplined  soldiers  in  England,  were  the  admiration 
of  John  and  all  his  friends;  to  the  other  side  they 
seemed  "very  rude  and  beastly  people,  few  or  none 
of  them  gentlemen,  but  very  proud."  The  words 
are  an  apt  illustration  of  the  sharp  and  bitter 
difference  of  feeling  between  the  two  parties  in  the 
country,  and  it  was  but  natural  that  the  bitterness 
should  be  most  keen  against  the  Cheshire  men,  for 
the  contending  powers  had  been  far  more  nearly 
balanced  than  at  present  appeared,  and  the  scale 
had  been  turned  decisively  in  Richard's  favour  by 
this  one  reliable  force  of  yeomen. 

For  the  time,  then,  the  king's  triumph  was  un- 
disputed. He  was  able  to  announce  to  the  two 
Houses  that  they  would  be  spared  the  painful 
necessity  of  trying  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  who, 
after  making  a  full  confession  in  writing,  had  very 
opportunely  died  on  the  27th  August,  "of  the 
disease  of  which  he  had  been  labouring  at  the 
moment  of  his  arrest."     He  was  to  be  brought  home 


FROM   WESTMINSTER  TO  TOWER  HILL.  261 

from  Calais  immediately,  and  buried  in  state  in  his 
own  chapel  at  Pleshey.  The  impeachment  of  the 
remaining  conspirators  would  be  proceeded  with  in 
three  or  four  days'  time. 

The  trial,  when  it  came,  was  a  short  one.  Warwick 
pleaded  guilty,  and  the  high  -  spirited  denials  of 
Arundel,  left  alone  to  answer  the  eight  Appellants, 
only  made  his  case  the  more  hopeless.  If  anything 
could  have  saved  him  it  would  have  been  his  fierce 
reply  to  Derby,  who  could  not  let  slip  an  opportunity 
of  bettering  his  own  credit  by  attacking  a  lion 
already  in  the  toils.  But  the  lion's  wrath  spared 
no  one,  from  the  king  downward,  and  the  end  was 
not  long  delayed.  When  the  formal  verdict  of 
"Guilty"  had  been  recorded  against  all  four  of 
the  traitors,  the  dead  and  the  living,  the  Duke  of 
Lancaster,  as  High  Steward  of  England,  pronounced 
sentence  in  the  presence  of  the  king,  who  listened 
with  the  serene  and  pitiless  face  of  an  avenging 
angel.  The  Duke  of  Gloucester's  estates  and  honours 
were  forfeited;  the  Earl  of  Warwick  was  banished 
to  the  Isle  of  Man,  and  all  his  possessions  con- 
fiscated ;  the  Archbishop  was  exiled  for  life — another 
touch  of  poetic  justice,  for  his  predecessor,  Archbishop 
Neville,  had  suffered  the  same  penalty  at  the  hands 
of  the  old  Lords  Appellant  in  the  days  of  Richard's 
humiliation. 

For  Arundel  there  could  be  nothing  but  death, 
sudden  and  exemplary;  and  Lancaster,  in  the  ous- 
tomary    form,   sentenced   the   traitor   to   be  drawn, 


262  SUNKISE. 

hanged,  burned,  beheaded,  and  quartered.  Then, 
after  a  pause,  he  added:  "The  King  our  Sovereign 
Lord,  of  his  grace,  because  thou  art  of  his  blood 
and  one  of  the  Peers  of  the  realm,  hath  remitted 
all  these  pains  unto  the  last,  so  only  that  thou  lose 
thy  head." 

To  John,  who  was  waiting  outsids  with  other 
officers,  the  news  was  no  surprise  in  itself;  but  it 
was  a  shock  to  find  that  the  execution  was  to  take 
place  immediately,  and  to  hear  his  lord's  voice 
giving  orders  for  all  his  people  to  attend  him  to 
Tower  Hill.  Huntingdon  was  close  behind  him, 
and  Nottingham  was  ordering  out  one  battalion 
of  the  mounted  archers. 

Lord  Kent's  horse  was  brought,  and  the  crowd 
of  retainers  fell  back :  John  stood  by  the  stirrup 
and  looked  his  master  in  the  face.  "Must  we  go 
this  errand  ? "  he  asked,  as  he  pretended  to  busy 
himself  with  the  girth.  Tom's  face  was  pale  and 
set ;  there  was  nothing  ignoble  in  it.  "  Yes,  John, 
we  must,"  he  said.  "  Nottingham  is  his  son-in-law, 
and  I  am  his  nephew ;  no  one  will  suspect  us  of 
revenge." 

"  My  lord  of  Huntingdon  ?  " 

"He  has  no  command,''  replied  Kent.  "I  suppose 
he  comes  to  see  that  we  do  not  weaken."  He 
spoke  like  one  who  has  his  own  work  to  do,  and 
no  inclination  to  attend  to  the  notions  of  others. 
John's  heart  was  lightened  a  little :  he  felt  that 
the  tone  was  at  any  rate  that  of  a  man. 


FROM   WESTMINSTER  TO  TOWER  HILL.  263 

The  procession  was  some  time  in  forming.  At 
last  it  moved  off,  Kent  in  front,  and  Nottingham, 
with  nearly  a  thousand  of  the  Cheshire  men,  in  the 
rear.  Huntingdon  was  left  to  his  own  devices,  and 
he  chose  to  thrust  himself  into  the  centre  of  the 
line,  immediately  behind  the  prisoner.  As  they  left 
the  precincts  of  the  palace  and  entered  the  densely 
packed  crowd  outside,  whom  he  rightly  supposed  to 
favour  Lord  Arundel,  he  took  it  upon  himself  to 
call  a  halt  and  order  the  condemned  man  to  be 
bound  for  greater  security.  Arundel  disdained  such 
a  persecutor  as  this,  and  quietly  requested  the 
sergeant  who  carried  out  the  order  to  leave  his 
hands  free  that  he  might  be  able  to  throw  his  last 
alms  to  the  people.  The  man  obeyed,  and  Hunting- 
don did  not  venture  to  interfere  again ;  but  he  called 
out  in  his  coarse,  mirthless  voice,  "  You  should  thank 
me,  good  folk;  it  is  my  money  he  is  giving  you  so 
freely : "  and  was  once  more  silenced  by  the  ominous 
growling  of  the  mob. 

At  Tower  Hill  he  urged  the  prisoner  to  confess 
his  guilt,  and  was  again  treated  with  silent  scorn. 
Before  he  could  repeat  the  insult  Lord  Kent  made 
a  sign  to  the  executioner,  who  came  forward  and 
knelt  before  his  victim,  asking  his  forgiveness. 

"  It  is  not  needed,"  said  Lord  Arundel,  as  he  bent 
down  and  kissed  his  forehead  with  great  dignity. 
Then  he  added :  "  Do  your  duty  as  you  are  com- 
manded, but  torment  me  not.  Strike  no  more 
than  ouoe." 


264  SUNRISE. 

This  was  almost  more  than  John  could  stand. 
He  glanced  sideways  at  his  lord  and  saw  that  he 
too  was  shaken  almost  beyond  endurance.  But 
their  misery  was  not  yet  over.  When  the  execu- 
tioner took  up  his  axe  Lord  Arundel  moved  gravely 
towards  him,  and,  with  the  air  of  one  seriously 
concerned,  tried  the  edge  with  his  hand.  John 
looked  down :  he  felt  as  if  the  whole  world  was 
mad,  and  himself  alone  and  powerless.  When  he 
raised  his  eyes  again  the  terror  had  come  nearer, 
for  Lord  Arundel  was  standing  close  by  him  and 
immediately  confronting  Kent  and  Nottingham. 

"As  for  you  two,"  he  heard  him  say  in  weighty 
aud  restrained  tones,  "it  had  been  meeter  for  you 
to  be  away  than  at  this  last  act;  for  you  never 
had  anything  but  honour  of  me,  and  you  have 
unkindly  brought  me  to  shame.  But  the  time  will 
come,  and  that  shortly,  when  as  many  shall  marvel 
at  your  misfortune  as  do  now  at  my  fall." 

He  turned  away  and  knelt  down  before  the  block. 
The  chaplain  heard  his  last  brief  confession  and 
gave  him  absolution ;  then,  while  they  bound  his 
eyes,  John  felt  his  own  heart  beating  as  though  it 
would  burst. 

The  axe  rose  and  fell.  "  So  perish  traitors !  "  said 
the  executioner  as  he  raised  the  head. 

Only  one  voice  in  all  the  vast  crowd  replied 
"Amen." 

"  Silence  !  "  said  Lord  Kent  sternly ;  and  he  knelt 
while  the  body  was  carried  away. 


THE   SUN   IN   HIS  SPLENDOUR.  26  D 


XL  VIII. 

After  the  stormy  scene  in  "Westminster  Hall  and 
that  heartrending  flash  of  the  axe  on  Tower  Hill, 
the  air  seemed  to  grow  suddenly  lighter,  and  John 
felt  his  peace  of  mind  returning,  his  old  hopes 
reviving,  under  the  still  radiance  which  began  to 
spread  over  the  king's  new  realm  of  England.  For 
Richard  was  entering  at  last  the  clear  meridian  of 
his  splendour:  the  clouds  which  so  long  obscured 
him  had  passed  away  or  sunk  below  the  horizon, 
and  he  was  determined  to  make  not  only  the  present 
hour  but  the  future  all  his  own.  Dazzled  by  his 
glory  or  humbled  by  his  power,  the  kingdom  over 
which  he  now  rose  consented  to  draw  from  him 
alone  the  form,  the  aims,  the  government,  of  its 
whole  being:  he  on  his  part  would  change  the 
historic  landmarks  of  society,  and  by  the  mere  touch 
of  his  all-powerful  rays  exalt  the  seeds  and  saplings 
of  yesterday  into  the  forest  oaks  of  the  age  to 
come. 

It  was  hardly  a  month  since  Gloucester's  mys- 
terious death,  hardly  more  than  a  week  after 
Arundel's  fall,  when  in  a  single  day  this  trans- 
formation passed  over  the  feudal  landscape  of 
England.  The  Earls  of  Derby,  Rutland,  Kent, 
Huntingdon,  and  Nottingham  vanished,  and  in  their 
places  in   the   royal    sunlight   shone   the    Dukes  of 


266  SUNRISEc 

Hereford,  Aumerle,  Surrey,  Exeter,  and  Norfolk ; 
while  the  Lords  Despenser,  Neville,  Scrope,  and 
Thomas  Percy  shot  up  into  the  Earls  of  Gloucester, 
Westmoreland,  Wiltshire,  and  Worcester.  Surpris- 
ing as  these  changes  were  in  a  House  of  sixty  peers, 
there  was  one  which  was  even  more  bewildering. 
John  Beaufort,  the  eldest  natural  son  of  Lancaster, 
had  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  year  been  transmuted 
from  base  metal  to  silver  by  an  Act  of  legitimation ; 
he  had  since  then  been  parcel-gilt  with  a  brand-new 
earldom,  and  was  now,  on  this  effulgent  29th  of 
September,  enriched  still  further  by  two  marquess- 
ates,  —  that  of  Dorset,  which  he  resigned  after  a 
few  hours'  enjoyment,  and  that  of  Somerset,  which 
he  never  used  at  all.  It  is  significant  of  the  opulent 
confusion  of  the  time  that  he  was  thenceforth  always 
known,  in  spite  of  this  exchange,  as  Marquess  of 
Dorset, — the  only  one  of  his  titles  to  which  he  had 
no  longer  any  right. 

Lavish  as  Eichard  was  to  all  those  who  had  stood 
by  him  at  the  critical  moment,  he  was  fully  aware 
of  the  distinction  between  fair-weather  allies  and  real 
friends.  Hereford  and  Norfolk  he  watched  with  an 
unwearied  patience  and  a  hand  always  ready  for  a 
safe  revenge :  for  De  Vere,  though  now  thrice  buried, 
was  never  forgotten.  The  Hollands,  his  own  kindred, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  knew  to  be  beyond  suspicion 
— as  the  old  Earl  of  Kent  had  told  John,  the  mistle- 
toe could  never  turn  against  the  oak  on  which  it 
grew.     To  Huntingdon,  therefore,  besides  the  Duke 


THE   SUN   IN   HIS   SPLENDOUR.  267 

dom  of  Exeter,  he  gave  a  long  roll  of  manors  and 
the  castle  of  Arundel,  with  its  fabulous  hoard  of 
plate  and  tapestries.  For  Tom  nothing  was  good 
enough :  the  rank  of  Duke,  the  historic  name  of 
Surrey,  the  most  noble  order  of  the  Garter,  Warwick 
Castle,  and  the  famous  Warwick  stud,  all  these  failed 
to  express  the  real  gratitude  and  affection  of  the 
king  towards  his  eldest  nephew.  His  next  gift, 
though  a  purely  decorative  one,  seemed  to  at  least 
one  observer  to  carry  a  deeper  meaning  than  the  rest. 
Richard  had  always  cherished  a  singular  devotion  to 
the  memory  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  and  had  now 
gone  to  the  length  of  adopting  his  traditional  arms 
as  part  of  the  royal  insignia.  At  the  same  time  he 
granted  them,  as  a  unique  prerogative,  to  the  Duke 
of  Surrey,  whose  banner  thenceforward  was  to  bear, 
instead  of  the  modest  baronial  shield  which  was  his 
birthright,  the  cross  and  martlets  of  the  Confessor 
impaled  with  the  lions  of  England.  The  slight  bor- 
dures  of  ermine  and  silver  which  differenced  the 
achievement  could  not  disguise  its  likeness  to  the 
standard  of  the  reigning  dynasty,  and  John  as  he 
saw  the  two  displayed  for  the  first  time  side  by  side, 
was  irresistibly  reminded  of  Pa  via  and  Gian  Galeazzo's 
sinister  hints.  And  certainly,  whatever  might  be 
the  king's  private  views  on  the  succession,  none  took 
him  very  seriously  when,  a  few  months  later,  he 
named  as  his  heir  the  little  Earl  of  March,  a  friend- 
less child  of  five. 

Happily  Tom  seemed  to  have  inherited  none  of  his 


268  STJNBISE. 

father's  unlawful  ambitions.  There  was,  however, 
one  more  honour  in  store  for  him  which  he  was  ready 
enough  to  accept — the  great  office  of  Earl  Marshal. 
This  had  been  granted  in  1383  to  Nottingham  for 
life,  and  only  a  year  ago  Richard  had  confirmed  it 
to  him  and  his  heirs.  But  no  man  can  preside  at 
his  own  trial ;  and  within  four  months  of  his  eleva- 
tion to  the  rank  of  Duke,  Norfolk  found  himself  called 
to  trial  by  one  of  his  peers.  Hereford,  with  the  cat- 
like sagacity  by  which  he  lived  through  so  many 
dangers,  divined  that  Norfolk,  in  order  to  save  him- 
self, would  sooner  or  later  pluck  up  the  courage  to 
denounce  his  old  associate  to  the  king.  Two  could 
play  at  that  game:  the  bolder  one  better  than  the 
half-hearted.  When  Parliament  met  after  Christmas 
he  lost  no  time  in  impeaching  Norfolk  for  using 
treasonable  language  and  trying  to  draw  him  into  a 
conspiracy.  The  case  was  heard  no  less  than  three 
times,  and  afforded  Richard  all  the  pleasures  of 
policy,  revenge,  and  spectacular  display.  A  Parlia- 
mentary Committee  referred  it  to  a  Court  of  Chivalry, 
which  in  turn  appointed  a  judicial  combat  to  be 
fought  before  the  king  by  the  two  Dukes  in  person. 
When  September  came,  the  lists  were  pitched  at 
Coventry,  the  Court  prepared  for  a  pageant  of  un- 
paralleled magnificence,  and  the  ceremonial  was  com- 
mitted to  the  hands  of  Thomas,  Duke  of  Surrey,  as 
Earl  Marshal  of  England  during  the  king's  pleasure. 

The    splendour    of    that    day   lived    long   in   the 
memory  of   all  who   saw  it,    and    John,   who   knew 


THE   SUN   IN  HIS   SPLENDOUR.  269 

enough  to  follow  the  moves  of  the  royal  game,  looked 
back  to  it  afterwards  as  the  realisation  of  many- 
dreams,  for  not  even  in  Italy  had  he  seen  upon  a 
throne  a  more  perfect  example  of  power,  subtlety, 
and  magnificence  combined.  It  was  the  subtlety 
which  pleased  him  most.  Richard  had  two  obvious 
alternatives  open  to  him :  he  could  not,  of  course, 
leave  the  case  to  be  decided  by  the  chances  of  battle, 
but  he  could  destroy  either  of  the  two  men  he  hated 
by  deciding  to  accept  the  evidence  of  the  other. 
Many  thought  that  he  would  crush  Hereford,  the 
more  dangerous  of  the  two ;  but  this  would  have  cost 
him  the  support  of  Lancaster.  Others  made  sure 
that  Norfolk  would  be  the  victim :  no  hearts  would 
break  for  him,  and  his  fall  would  lull  Hereford  into 
security  till  a  better  chance  appeared.  Of  these  al- 
ternatives, the  first  was  urged  upon  the  king  by 
Salisbury,  Despenser,  and  Scrope;  the  second  by 
Exeter  only :  Surrey,  as  Earl  Marshal  and  youngest 
Counsellor,  was  for  letting  the  opponents  fight  to  a 
finish.  Richard  alone  saw  that  by  an  indecisive 
judgment  he  could  rid  himself  of  both.  By  exiling 
Norfolk  for  life  he  put  him  out  of  the  English  world 
as  finally  as  if  he  had  condemned  him  to  death ;  by 
banishing  Hereford  for  ten  years  he  tore  up  his 
influence  by  the  roots,  and  kept  Lancaster  quiet 
with  hopes  of  leave  to  replant.  Meanwhile  it  might 
be  taken  that  Hereford's  guilt  was  rather  treachery 
against  his  peer  than  treason  to  his  sovereign,  and 
family  relations  would  be  undisturbed. 


270  SUNRISE. 

So  the  sky  cleared  once  more,  the  sun  shone 
brighter  than  ever,  and  deep  peace  settled  down  upon 
the  palace  at  Eltham,  where  Richard,  after  the  labours 
of  diplomacy,  spent  the  autumn  playing  with  his 
little  Queen.  September  drew  to  a  close  with  warm 
still  days,  in  which  life  seemed  as  richly  coloured  and 
composed,  and  almost  as  unmoving,  as  a  series  of 
pictures  in  tapestry,  swayed  only  by  the  faintest  sigh 
of  the  wind.  At  noon  the  gardens  murmured  with 
poetry;  in  the  breathless  evening  they  dreamed  to 
the  thin  music  of  the  lute;  at  all  times  they  were 
haunted  by  the  grace  and  beauty  of  girlhood.  Per- 
haps the  young  Duke  of  Surrey  and  his  bride  found 
the  air  a  little  heavy  and  enervating  after  their 
Yorkshire  moorland;  but  for  John  and  Margaret 
this  idle  end  of  summer  was  a  green  oasis  in  the 
desert  of  deferred  hopes. 

Once  only  the  sunlight  of  their  enchanted  garden 
was  touched  by  a  cloud — the  lightest  shadow  of  a 
cloud — from  the  outer  world.  It  was  a  hot  day,  and 
they  were  sitting,  two  here  and  three  there,  in  the 
long  open  galleries  of  the  palace — very  pleasant  and 
shady  galleries  hung  with  vines.  Outside  the  sound 
of  a  trumpet  broke  the  repose  of  the  morning  with 
a  startling  challenge;  a  heavy  step  followed  the 
patter  of  the  young  lord  in  waiting.  Henry  of 
Hereford  was  there,  elaborately  dutiful,  minutely 
melancholy,  to  take  leave  of  his  king  on  his  way 
into  exile. 

Richard  was  all  simplicity  and  kindness :  at  part- 


THE   SUN   IN   HIS  SPLENDOUR.  271 

ing  he  gave  his  cousin  letters  commendatory  to  the 
King  of  France  and  the  Princes  of  half  Christendom. 
When  Henry  bade  him  farewell,  Richard  replied 
cheerily,  "Six  years  will  soon  be  gone,"  and  even 
the  wily  Hereford  was  moved  by  this  remission  of 
nearly  half  his  sentence. 

He  passed  away  into  the  afternoon  glare,  and  the 
Court  fell  back  on  its  couches  under  the  cool  shady 
vines.  "Well,  they  are  gone,"  said  Richard,  lazily 
content,  "  and  you,  Tom,  are  Earl  Marshal  for  life." 

"  For  whose  life  ?  For  our  cousin  Henry's  ?  "  asked 
the  little  queen. 

"No,  my  angel,"  replied  Richard;  "longer  than 
that,  I  hope." 

"How  long  then?"  persisted  her  inquiring  Majesty. 

"For  his  own  life,"  he  answered,  laughing  and 
mimicking  her  childish  accent,  " — or  for  mine  at 
any  rate." 

"But  is  that  longer?"  And  then,  when  everyone 
laughed,  she  repeated  earnestly :  "  But  is  it  longer  ? 
But  tell  me,  why  is  it  longer  ?  " 

Richard  was  more  and  more  amused.  "Well, 
perhaps  it  is  not  longer,"  he  said  mischievously: 
and  again  a  light  laughter  rippled  the  placid  faces 
around  him. 


PAET    V. 
SUNDOWN 


s 


XLTX. 

RiCHARD  ruled  as  despotically  as  even  John  could 
wish;  the  laws  of  England,  as  he  said,  were  in  his 
mouth  and  nowhere  else;  but  then  he  administered 
them  with  leniency.  Gloucester  and  Arundel  once 
removed,  he  pursued  no  man  to  death, — a  policy  in 
striking  contrast  with  the  long  and  cruel  series  of 
judicial  murders  perpetrated  by  his  opponents  of  ten 
years  ago.  His  forced  loans  and  arbitrary  fines 
earned  him  a  good  deal  of  unpopularity  in  the 
counties  which  suffered  from  them,  but  not  a  finger 
was  raised  against  his  decrees,  and  when  his  uncle 
Lancaster  died  in  February  1399  there  was  not  left 
in  England  even  a  voice  to  call  them  openly  in 
question. 

So  far,  then,  the  great  plan  had  worked  out  suc- 
cessfully :  the  old  spider  would  have  been  satisfied 
with  the  younger  brood  to  whom  he  had  been 
obliged  to  leave  his  half -spun  web.  But  in  six 
weeks  more  all  was  changed  :  by  a  single  miscalcula- 
tion— probably  the  most  far-reaching  ever  made  in 
the  history  of  England— Richard  brought  to  ruin 
the  fine-woven  fabrio  which  had  cost  him  these  ten 


276  SUNDOWN. 

years  of  patience  and  duplicity.  If  we  pity  him  as 
one  who  paid  dearly  for  a  mistake,  we  must  remem- 
ber that  the  mistake  was  not  an  accidental  one, 
but  the  natural  offspring  of  a  union  of  levity  and 
brutality.  It  was  in  the  New  June  that  it  was 
conceived. 

The  day  was  a  rough  one  towards  the  middle  of 
March,  and  the  king  had  gone  over  from  the  Tower 
to  spend  the  afternoon  in  the  society  of  his  brother 
Exeter.  The  Duchess  was,  as  usual,  away  from 
home  on  some  frivolous  errand  of  her  own,  and  it 
happened  that  Tom  had  taken  this  opportunity  for 
coming  to  discuss  with  his  uncle  a  matter  over 
which  they  had  already  disagreed. 

When  Richard  entered  the  great  chamber  of  the 
house  he  found  his  brother  sitting  on  a  couch  near 
the  fire  with  a  sullen  shoulder  turned  upon  his  nephew, 
who  stood  near  him  with  a  roll  of  papers  in  his  hand, 
and  a  secretary  in  close  attendance.  The  Duke  rose 
heavily  to  greet  the  king,  and  made  no  attempt  to 
conceal  his  ill-humour.  Richard,  however,  ignored 
it,  and  seated  himself  comfortably  in  the  place  from 
which  his  host  had  risen.  "What  have  you  there?" 
he  asked  Tom,  who  was  in  the  act  of  handing  his 
papers  to  the  secretary. 

"  The  Charter  of  Mount  Grace — at  least  the  draft 
of  it." 

"Mount  Grace?"  Richard's  ear  was  pleased. 
"That's  a  fine  name.     What  is  Mount  Grace?" 

Exeter  walked  ostentatiously  away  to  the  window 


CHAPTERED  AND  UNCHARTERED.        277 

and  looked  out.       Tom  seemed  a  little  irritated  by 
both  his  relatives. 

"I  am  founding  a  Carthusian  house  in  Yorkshire," 
he  replied,  "  by  royal  licence,  dated  the  18th  day  of 
February,  in  the  twenty-second  year  of  our  Lord 
Richard,  whose  memory  God  preserve." 

"  Thank  you,  He  does,"  said  the  king,  smiling 
affectionately  at  this  outbreak ;  "  but  that  was  a 
year  ago — your  charter  seems  to  be  rather  belated." 

The  young  founder  looked  towards  his  uncle 
Exeter  and  frowned.  "It  is  not  so  easy,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  to  get  the  wording  of  the  deed  settled." 

"You  have  got  two  words  right,  at  any  rate," 
said  Richard ;  "  let  me  see  if  I  can  help  you  with 
the  rest."  He  made  a  sign  to  the  secretary  to  read 
the  document,  and  lay  back  luxuriously  upon  his 
cushions  to  hear,  inviting  Tom  to  a  seat  beside 
him. 

"Sciant  omnes,"  began  the  secretary  :  the  king's 
hand  went  up. 

"English  first,  Latin  afterwards:  and  you  can 
omit  the  Duke  of  Surrey's  titles  and  the  usual 
pious  generalities:  come  to  the  Carthusians." 

"If  your  Majesty  pleases,"  said  the  reader.  "And 
whereas  while  we  believe  and  know  of  a  truth  that 
all  conditions  and  orders  of  Holy  Church  are  good 
and  devout " 

"My  dear  Tom,"  Richard  interrupted,  "you  know 
of  a  truth  more  than  I  do :  no  wonder  you  use  the 
royal  'we.'" 


278  SUNDOWN. 

To  John,  where  he  stood  near  the  door,  the  words 
seamed  to  awake  an  echo :  but  his  lord  explained 
with  perfect  simplicity  that  the  plural  was  a  mere 
form  of  the  lawyers. 

"Yet,"  continued  the  secretary, — "yet,  by  the 
inspiration  of  God,  we  bear  a  special  devotion  and 
strong  affection  towards  the  most  holy  Carthusian 
Order,  and  greatly  admire  the  sacred  observances 
peculiar  to  the  said  order,  and  also  the  persons  living 
therein,  whose  number,  by  the  aid  of  the  divine  grace, 
we  heartily  desire  to  increase " 

"  Since  they  cannot  multiply  themselves ! "  said  the 
king.  "You  certainly  have  ideas,  Tom;  you  justify 
your  claim  to  inspiration." 

"It  is  all  quite  true,"  replied  his  nephew  seriously. 
"  I  do  specially  admire  them :  they  have  more 
common -sense  about  them  than  the  rest,  and  less 
sanctimoniousness.  The  Venerable  Peter  of  Clugny 
has  said  that  they  are  the  best  of  all  the  Latin 
Orders." 

"Oh,  has  he?"  asked  Richard,  who  was  thoroughly 
enjo}Ting  himself ;  "  did  he  say  it  to  you  ?  " 

The  learned  founder  looked  a  little  disconcerted. 

He  has  been  dead  this  hundred  years :  it  was 
Nicholas  Love  who  repeated  it  to  me." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  king.  "  Nicholas  Love  :  there 
you  come  to  a  name  I  know.  I  hope  you  are  doing 
something  for  Nicholas." 

"You  will  see."  He  turned  to  the  secretary. 
"Go  on:  read  the  testatum." 


CHARTERED  AND  UNCHARTERED.        279 

"For  these  reasons  and  for  the  honour  and 
reverence  due  to  God,  and  His  Holy  Mother  the 
Virgin  Mary,  and  to  St  Nicholas,  and  for  the  affec- 
tion we  bear  to  the  feast  of  the  Assumption  of  the 
said  glorious  Virgin  and  the  feast  of  the  said  St 
Nicholas " 


Richard  laughed  outright.  "By  St  John!"  he 
cried,  "you  know  how  to  place  your  friends  in  good 
company.  After  that  I  suppose  you  make  St 
Nicholas  your  first  prior  ?  " 

"  Not  nominally  the  first :  there  are  two  fellows 
who  have  been  overseeing  the  building,  but  they 
only  have  one  year  each  :  Nicholas  follows  next 
January.  The  Prior  of  the  Grande  Chartreuse  has 
given  his  assent." 

"By  the  way,"  asked  Richard,  "why  this  affection 
of  yours  for  the  feast  of  the  Assumption  ? — or  is  that 
a  lawyer's  form  too?" 

"I  was  married  on  that  day."  He  lowered  his 
voice  and  looked  again  towards  the  window. 

Richard  understood  and  changed  the  subject. 
"Well,  now,  the  list  of  founders  and  benefactors — 
I  hope  I  oome  in  that  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  replied  Tom,  "and  I  wish  all  my 
family  to  be  in  it :  that  was  the  point  we  were  at 
when  you  arrived." 

"The  confraternity,"  continued  the  secretary,  "is 
to  be  called  the  House  of  Mount  Grace  of  Ingleby, 
and  the  members  are  to  pray  for  King  Richard  and 
Queen  Isabella,  for  the  said  Thomas  Duke  of  Surrey 


280  SUNDOWN. 

and  his  wife,  for  John  Duke  of  Exeter,  and  for  John 
Ingleby  and  Eleanor  his  wife,  during  their  lives ; 
and  after  their  deaths  to  say  masses  for  the  repose 
of  their  souls,  and  also  for  the  souls  of  Anne,  late 
queen  of  the  said  King  Richard;  of  Edmund,  late 
Earl  of  Kent,  and  Margaret  his  wife;  of  Joan,  late 
Princess  of  Wales,  and  her  husband  Thomas,  late 
Earl  of  Kent,  grandparents  of  the  said  Duke  of 
Surrey ;  of  Thomas,  late  Earl  of  Kent,  and  Alice 
his  wife,  father  and  mother  of  the  Said  duke ;  and 
for  the  souls  of  all  his  ancestors  and  heirs  for  ever ; 
and  also  for  the  souls  of  Thomas  Ingleby  and 
Catherine  his  wife,  and  of  certain  other  persons; 
and  for  the  souls  of  all  the  faithful  dead." 

"When  the  dry  mechanical  voice  ceased  there  was 
silence  in  the  room.  Richard's  mood  had  changed 
completely  from  the  moment  when  he  heard  the 
name  of  his  dead  Queen  Anne,  the  anguish  of  whose 
memory  still  shook  him  like  a  returning  fever  after 
long  intervals  of  time.  He  looked  fixedly  down  and 
busied  himself  with  a  tassel  of  the  cushion  beside 
him,  separating  the  threads  and  laying  them  care- 
fully out  on  the  palm  of  his  hand  :  tears  fell  more 
than  once  upon  them  before  he  threw  them  from  him 
and  raised  his  head. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  looking  with  kind  eyes 
on  his  nephew,  "  you  have  a  long  list  there  :  I  hope 
the  contributions  are  proportionate,  or  you  will  be 
ruined." 

"That's   the   trouble,"   said   Tom;   "they  are   all 


CHARTERED  AND  UNCHARTERED.       281 

small  people  except  my  Uncle  John,  and  he  refuses 
to  have  any  hand  in  the  business.  The  builders 
are  wanting  money  at  this  moment,  and  I  haven't 
a  penny  for  them:  my  expenses  have  been  very 
heavy  this  year." 

Kichard  smiled  indulgently.  "John!"  he  called 
to  the  sullen  figure  by  the  window.  "Don't  you 
think  you  might  join  :  you  are  not  asked  to  give 
something  for  nothing,  you  know." 

"No  clergy -mongering  for  me,"  growled  his  brother. 
"I'd  rather  buy  one  meal  for  my  body  than  ten 
masses  for  my  soul  any  day." 

Richard  smiled  again  :  his  lighter  mood  was  re- 
turning. "Well,  Tom,"  he  said,  "there's  one  uncle 
gone,  and  I'm  afraid  the  other  is  in  your  own  case — 
his  expenses  have  been  very  heavy  lately ;  the  chest 
wants  refilling  first." 

"You  can  fill  it  when  you  please,"  Exeter 
grumbled.  "You  have  only  to  pluck  that  green 
goose  Hereford." 

Perhaps  the  idea  was  not  quite  new  to  the  king's 
mind :  he  looked  towards  his  nephew,  and  was  silent. 
Tom  took  the  matter  quite  simply.  "The  fact  is," 
he  said,  "  that  you  can't  leave  him  where  he  stands : 
now  his  father  is  dead  he  holds  more  land  than  any 
six  of  us." 

"True,"  replied  Richard,  "he  is  in  a  false  position 
for  a  subject;  but  is  it  the  moment  to  rouse  him 
when  we  are  just  going  to  Ireland?" 

"Rouse  him!"  snarled   Exeter.      "Pluck  him,  I 


282  SUNDOWN. 

tell  you,  every  feather;  take  his  ugly  gosling  to 
Ireland  with  you,  and  say  you'll  wring  his  neck 
if  the  old  bird  so  much  as  hisses." 

Kichard  turned  again  to  Tom.  "Your  uncle  of 
Exeter  is  always  John  Holland ;  but  there  is  some- 
thing in  what  he  says."  To  John  Marland,  standing 
back  by  the  door,  the  king  seemed  almost  to  be  con- 
ciliating his  nephew,  appealing  to  him  to  make  up 
his  mind  for  him  in  the  desired  direction. 

Tom  was  not  loth.  "You  can't  have  two  stags 
to  one  herd:  we  have  had  too  much  of  that 
already." 

"We  will  consult  the  Parliamentary  Council," 
said  the  king,  rising ;  and  no  one  in  the  room 
doubted  what  he  meant. 


On  the  29th  of  May  Kichard  sailed  for  Ireland.  It 
was  now  more  than  two  months  since  the  con- 
fiscation of  the  huge  Lancaster  inheritance,  and 
Hereford  had  shown  no  active  sign  of  resentment; 
nevertheless  the  king  deliberated  carefully  before 
leaving  the  country,  and  took  all  the  precautions 
that  his  advisors  could  suggest.  Of  his  six  faithful 
Lords  Appellant  three  accompanied  him  in  person 
with  their -retainers:   one,  the  Duke  of  Surrey,  was 


A  SATL   OFF   BLACKROCK.  283 

despatched  in  advance  to  rally  the  English  of  the 
Pale;  and  the  remaining  two,  the  Earl  of  Wiltshire 
and  the  Marquis  of  Dorset,  were  left  to  assist  the 
old  Duke  of  York,  who  was  to  administer  the  realm 
as  the  King's  Lieutenant  during  his  absence.  The 
great  bodyguard  of  two  thousand  Cheshire  archers 
formed  the  solid  nucleus  of  the  expedition,  and  took 
in  charge  the  Crown  jewels,  the  regalia,  and  the 
royal  treasure.  Lastly,  Richard  kept  at  his  side,  as 
a  living  guarantee  against  his  enemies,  two  young 
hostages — one  the  disinherited  son  of  the  late  Duke 
of  Gloucester,  the  other  the  heir  of  Hereford  him- 
self,— a  boy  of  thirteen,  already  known  as  Harry  of 
Monmouth. 

Tom's  task  was  no  easy  one,  but  he  threw  himself 
into  the  work  with  ardour  and  something  more. 
His  ability  and  power  surprised  John,  who  was 
still  apt  to  think  of  him  as  a  boy,  and  was  per- 
haps not  quite  free  from  the  common  belief  of 
those  who  serve  the  highly  born,  that  capacity  is 
a  gift  reserved  exclusively  for  the  middle  ranks. 
But  the  office  of  the  King's  Lieutenant  in  Ireland 
was  not  one  which  could  be  delegated  to  subor- 
dinates ;  and  it  was  thanks  to  Tom's  own  energy 
and  organising  force  that  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions were  completed  by  the  31st  of  May,  when 
Richard  landed  at  Waterford. 

Six  days  later  his  headquarters  were  advanced 
to  Kilkenny,  and  the  campaign  was  begun.  Art 
MacMurrough  proved  to  be  a  master  in  the  prac- 


284  SUNDOWN. 

tice  of  guerilla  war,  and  after  a  month  of  fruitless 
successes,  costly  pursuits,  and  incessant  rearguard 
actions,  the  exhaustion  of  their  supplies  compelled 
the  expedition  to  take  the  coast  road  to  Dublin 
and  refit  for  a  fresh  advance. 

By  the  10th  of  July  all  was  once  more  ready, 
and  Tom  was  priding  himself  on  having  effectually 
guarded  against  any  further  shortage  of  provisions. 
He  had  established  a  continuous  service  at  short 
stages  along  the  whole  of  the  road  between  Dublin 
and  Arklow,  and  during  the  last  few  days  he  had 
visited  every  post  in  person  to  see  that  nothing 
had  been  left  undone.  During  the  final  stage  of 
his  return  journey  he  was  riding  ahead  of  his 
men,  with  John  at  his  side,  when  suddenly,  after 
crossing  the  headland  north  of  Kilkenny,  they  caught 
sight  of  a  small  ship  which  had  just  rounded  the 
point  to  the  east  of  Blackrock.  She  was  tacking 
hard  for  Dublin,  and  they  watched  her  with  interest, 
for  she  was  the  first  English  vessel  to  arrive  since 
they  reached  Dublin  ten  days  ago,  and  if  she  came 
from  England  would  bring  them  the  first  news  they 
had  received  since  their  landing  at  Waterford. 

"I  cannot  understand,"  said  Tom,  "why  she  is  so 
late :  but  there  is  no  mistake  about  her  now, — I 
see  the  white  ensign  and  the  private  pennant  I 
arranged  with  Bagot." 

"We  shall  know  before  long,"  replied  John;  "a 
few  more  of  those  long  legs  will  take  her  in." 
And  they  rode  rapidly  on,  round  the  bay. 


A  SAIL  OFF  BLACKEOCK.  285 

John's  expectation  was  a  natural  one,  but  it  was 
never  to  be  fulfilled:  to  this  day  no  one  knows  by 
what  strange  tangle  of  accident  or  cunning  Richard's 
communications  were  impeded  so  long  at  the  very 
crisis  of  his  fate. 

Tom  rode  straight  to  the  Castle,  passed  the  gate 
without  a  word,  and  dismounted  at  the  steps.  At 
the  same  moment  Salisbury  came  hastily  out,  calling 
to  his  squire. 

"Thank  God ! "  he  cried  fervently,  as  he  saw  Tom ; 
"you'll  take  young  Harry  off  my  hands — he's  lost, 
if  Exeter  gets  hold  of  him." 

His  hurried  manner  and  agitated  voice  struck 
John  with  a  deadly  sense  of  danger:  he  divined  in 
a  flash  that  what  had  happened  was  foredoomed, 
inevitable,  far-reaching — life  went  black  before  his 
eyes. 

"  You  haven't  heard  ?  "  said  Salisbury,  stopped  by 
Tom's  astonished  look ;  "  Bagot  has  come  from  Eng- 
land: Hereford  landed  in  the  Humber  a  week  ago 
and  the  North  is  up,  Percies  and  all.  I'm  off  this 
moment  to  raise  Chester  and  North  Wales :  you  are 
to  follow — God  knows  where  you'll  get  transport — 
Good-bye!" 

John  stood  looking  after  him:  his  lord  ran  up 
the  steps.  "Come  along,  John,"  he  cried  from  the 
doorway ;  "  here's  a  real  war  at  last ! " 

His  gay  voice  rang  in  the  sombre  courtyard:  the 
blood  leaped  again  in  John's  heart  as  he  followed 
him. 


286  SUNDOWN. 


LI. 


The  real  war  was  not  to  come  yet.  Richard  himself 
was  as  eager  as  his  nephew,  but  no  one  can  make 
war  without  an  army,  and  the  royal  armies  all  melted 
like  snow  before  the  rising  Sun  of  Lancaster.  The 
king  had  scarcely  landed  at  Milford  Haven  when 
York,  who  was  marching  to  join  him,  was  overtaken 
by  Hereford  in  person;  his  men  deserted,  and  he 
himself  accepted  Hereford's  assurance  that  he  had 
only  come  to  get  back  his  own.  Two  days  later  the 
invader  summoned  Bristol  Castle.  In  it  were 
Scrope,  Earl  of  Wiltshire,  Sir  John  Bushy,  the 
Speaker,  and  Sir  Thomas  Green,  a  knight  of 
Richard's  household.  The  Governor,  Sir  Piers 
Courtenay,  surrendered  them  on  demand,  and  in  an 
hour  their  heads  had  fallen ;  Henry  could  make  law 
as  easily  as  Richard,  but  he  made  it  without 
mercy  and  without  even  the  semblance  of  justice. 

The  defection  of  York  and  Courtenay  was  a 
terrible  blow  to  the  king's  party :  some  among 
them  shook  visibly  at  the  fate  of  Scrope  and  Bushy, 
against  whom  their  enemies  had  laid  no  charge 
except  that  their  mere  existence  was  inconvenient 
to  the  usurper.  Richard  alone  appeared  to  be 
unmoved.  "  We  have  borne  worse  than  this," 
was  his  continual  answer  to  his  nephew's  fierce 
chafing.        He    seemed    to    forecast    another    great 


renaed's  hospitality.  287 

recovery,  and  to  be  resolved  meanwhile  to  make 
the  crisis  a  final  winnowing  of  friends  from 
time-serving  followers.  "Most  men,"  he  said,  "are 
conqueror's  men :  their  time  comes  afterwards. 
The  fighting  must  be  done  by  those  who  want  us 
for  our  own  sakes.  I  may  have  few  such,  but  I 
am  sure  Henry  has  none." 

Certainly  Hereford  could  not  count  even  among 
his  own  family  circle  any  friends  so  devoted  as 
Surrey  and  Exeter,  or  a  single  supporter  so  faith- 
ful and  disinterested  as  Salisbury.  These  were 
Richard's  sheet-anchors,  and  he  never  doubted 
that  they  would  hold.  While  he  and  they  lived 
nothing  was  lost  beyond  retrieving ;  the  rest 
might  fail  him  now,  they  would  fail  his  enemy 
hereafter.  He  heard  then  with  a  serene  contempt 
the  news  of  the  disloyalty  of  Worcester  and  Aumerle; 
a  week  after  he  left  them  they  had  disbanded  their 
troops,  and  taken  up  what  they  called  a  neutral 
position.  The  axe  play  at  Bristol  had  shattered 
their  nerve:  they  were  ready  to  beg  life  of  the 
victor  when  it  should  please  Fortune  to  name  him. 

In  the  meantime  Salisbury  had  joined  the  king 
at  Conway;  but  he  brought  no  force  with  him, 
for  Hereford  had  marched  on  Cheshire  at  once 
and  held  it  down  by  sheer  numbers.  Before  the 
middle  of  August  the  invader  was  firmly  established 
at  Chester,  and  Richard  had  but  a  hundred  or  two  of 
lances  to  meet  him.  Time  must  be  gained,  and  there 
was  only  one  way  to  gain  it. 


288  STTNDOWN. 

On  the  14th  Surrey  and  Exeter  came  to  Chester 
unarmed,  and  unattended  except  by  squires  and 
secretaries.  Their  errand  was  to  parley,  to  pro- 
crastinate, to  entangle  Hereford  in  orderly  negotia- 
tions. Their  failure  was  immediate  and  complete. 
John  knew  it  from  the  moment  when  the  small 
nervously  cheerful  party  was  ushered  into  the 
usurper's  presence  with  all  the  observance  of  royal 
ceremony.  Exeter  knew  it  too,  and  his  coarse  face 
turned  a  leaden  purple.  Tom's  simplicity  remained 
as  the  only  diplomatic  asset  of  the  Embassy. 

Henry  of  Hereford,  or  Lancaster  as  he  had  now 
the  right  to  call  himself,  received  them  in  a  court- 
yard filled  with  picked  troops  displaying  the  colours 
of  the  most  poweful  barons  in  England.  On  his 
right  hand  stood  the  ex-Archbishop  Arundel,  on  his 
left  the  Earls  of  Northumberland  and  Westmoreland, 
next  to  them  the  faithless  Dorset  and  the  young 
Earl  of  Stafford,  Tom's  own  brother-in-law.  John, 
five  paces  in  rear  of  his  master,  could  survey  them 
all  at  once,  and  every  face  among  them  had  its 
own  associations  for  him.  A  hostile  personality 
seemed  to  leap  at  him  from  each  in  turn  as  he 
passed  them  in  review;  but  when  he  came  to  the 
central  figure  he  saw  the  rest  no  longer  except  as 
shadows  hovering  faintly  about  their  leader.  Solid 
and  sleek,  in  complete  armour  and  a  tall  black  silk 
hat,  Henry  stood  to  receive  his  guests,  broad- 
browed,  broad-shouldered,  and  unutterably  hateful. 
Every  moment,   with   the  man's   incessant  smiling, 


RENARD'S   HOSPITALrTY.  289 

the  wide  cheeks  widened  and  the  short  peaky  beard 
came  doubling  forward.  In  sight  of  this  coarse 
abundant  vitality  it  was  pain  to  think  of  Richard's 
hart  -  like  eyes  and  slender  figure  —  the  grace  of 
a  deer  beneath  the  murderous  fist  of  a  butcher. 

The  audience  was  short,  and  stifled  with  oily 
geniality.  It  was  in  vain  that  Surrey  spoke  again 
and  again  of  the  king's  reasonableness,  of  his  desire 
to  hear  Lancaster's  claims — even  Lancaster's  wishes. 

"To-morrow,"  replied  Henry,  with  his  everlasting 
smile. 

"I  understand,  then,"  said  Tom  firmly,  "that  that 
matter  is  settled :  you  will  give  us  an  answer  to- 
morrow." 

Henry's  face  shone  with  unction.  "I  will  give 
my  Cousin  Richard  an  answer  to-morrow.  My  Lord 
Archbishop  and  my  Lord  of  Northumberland  will 
carry  it." 

Exeter  started,  but  Tom  received  the  blow  with 
courage.     "Then  our  embassy  is  done,"  he  said. 

"Certainly,"  Lancaster  replied,  "your  embassy 
is  done,  and  your  visit  begins  from  this  moment.  My 
Lord  of  Westmoreland  will  attend  you  during  your 
stay." 

Westmoreland  bowed  and  raised  his  hand :  thirty 
men  in  the  Neville  livery  grounded  their  poleaxes  in 
a  ring  about  the  prisoners.  They  were  just  in  time : 
John's  hand  was  on  his  dagger  and  his  eyes  were 
already  deep  in  Lancaster's  throat. 

T 


290  SUNDOWN. 


LII. 

The  two  Dukes  and  their  servants  were  housed  in 
a  large  chamber  on  the  second  floor  of  the  keep : 
after  setting  a  sufficient  guard  outside,  Lord  West- 
moreland left  them  to  themselves.  Surrey  stood  for 
some  time  by  a  window  and  looked  silently  out: 
he  was  lost  in  thought  and  frowned  continually,  but 
with  no  appearance  of  anger  or  impatience.  Exeter 
moved  uneasily  about,  scowling  and  growling. 

"What  fools  we  were  !  What  fools  !"  he  kept  mut- 
tering, with  a  blow  of  his  heel  at  each  repetition. 

"By  God!  By  God  and  all  His  bones— if  I  had 
had  a  dagger ! "  His  dull  face  wore  its  most  cruel 
look,  and  John  felt  the  old  disgust  as  he  saw  it, 
though  it  was  but  a  moment  ago  that  he  himself 
had  been  seized  with  the  same  murderous  thought. 

Presently  Tom's  brow  relaxed  :  he  turned  to  his 
companions  with  the  abrupt  familiar  manner  of  his 
boyhood  —  however  young,  he  was  now  their  only 
leader. 

"Look  here."  he  said,  —  "you  too,  John, — I've 
worked  this  out :  I  see  the  whole  plan ;  I'll  just 
show  it  you  while  we  have  the  opportunity." 

They  all  three  sat  down  in  the  window :  Tom 
glanced  at  the  little  group  of  servants  gathered  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  long  room,  and  began  to  speak 
in  a  quiet  even  voice. 


SWORD    OR   DAGGER.  291 

"This  was  a  fool's  errand  of  ours,"  he  said,  "and 
I've  been  wondering  why  the  king  made  us  put  our 
heads  into  the  fox's  mouth :  I  see  it  now.  Things 
had  to  be  worse  before  they  oould  be  better.  You 
saw  how  oool  he  was :  but  he  must  have  known 
Hereford  would  have  us,  and  him  too :  therefore  he 
must  have  felt  that  that  didn't  matter,  or  that 
that  was  the  best  that  could  happen.  I  think  he 
is  right:  so  long  as  he  lives  and  we  live,  the  tables 
can  always  be  turned :  the  one  thing  to  avoid  is 
hot  blood  while  we  are  in  the  weaker  position.  If 
we  had  struggled,  they  would  have  taken  our  heads : 
now  they  have  got  us  under  the  pretence  of  a  visit, 
Hereford  will  be  ashamed  to  go  to  extremes :  he'll 
fine  or  banish  us :  we  shall  take  it  humbly  and  wait 
for  our  chance.  We  have  quite  half  England  with 
us:  but  just  now  it  is  not  the  half  whioh  is  in  the 
field." 

Exeter  looked  a  little  more  cheerful.  "  You  think 
Hereford  won't  .  .  .  you  think  he  won't  do  more  than 
fine  us  ?  "  he  asked. 

Tom  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "My  dear  uncle," 
he  replied,  "what  is  the  use  of  suggesting  that? 
Of  course  if  he  does  go  to  extremes,  the  game  is 
ended — there's  no  more  to  be  said.  The  other  al- 
ternative is  the  only  one  that  matters  to  us." 

"  You  talk  very  lightly,"  said  Exeter,  with  a  peevish 
twist  of  his  mouth. 

John  saw  by  his  lord's  face  that  an  interruption 
would  be  not  unwelcome. 


292  SUNDOWN. 

"But  what  about  the  king?"  he  asked 

"He  is  safe  enough,"  Tom  replied.  "He  will 
abdicate.  It  is  Hereford's  game  to  make  him  do 
that :  no  one  will  rise  in  favour  of  a  king  who  ab- 
dicates. On  the  other  hand,  it  is  also  the  king's 
game,  because  his  turn  must  come,  some  day,  if  we 
live.  We  shall  remove  Henry — permanently — and 
no  one  can  rise  in  favour  of  a  usurper  who  has  been 
removed  permanently." 

The  phrase,  though  spoken  with  Tom's  usual 
straightforward  simplicity,  did  not  please  John's 
ear.  It  was  an  echo  of  Gian  Galeazzo,  whom  he 
admired,  but  it  seemed  somehow  less  brilliant  on 
English  lips.  Still  Hereford  was  undeniably  as 
much  of  a  traitor  as  Gloucester  or  Arundel  had 
ever  been — more,  for  he  had  done  what  they  had 
only  plotted. 

"When  you  say  'removed' "  John  began. 

"  Oh !  I  would  rather  he  showed  sport,"  said  Tom, 
"but  we  can't  give  much  play  to  feelings  of  that 
kind :  he's  vermin,  you  know,  not  a  right  stag  at 
all." 

Exeter's  eyes  were  hxed  sullenly  on  the  dagger 
in  John's  belt. 


A  DUG    AND    A   TRAITOR.  293 


LI  II. 


In  the  hands  of  Northumberland,  a  violent  and 
self-seeking  adventurer,  the  negotiations  were  much 
curtailed.  On  the  19th  Richard  came  to  Flint  with 
the  last  few  friends  who  remained  to  him.  There 
were  but  four  of  them  —  the  Earls  of  Salisbury 
and  Gloucester,  Bishop  Merke  of  Carlisle,  and  John 
Maudelyn,  the  king's  private  secretary. 

Hereford  had  kept  his  own  counsel,  and  up  to 
the  moment  of  their  arrival  no  one  had  any  idea 
of  the  terms  upon  which  they  came.  The  place  was 
surrounded  by  a  huge  army,  but  there  were  no  troops 
in  the  courtyard  where  Richard  was  waiting.  When 
Henry  arrived,  Westmoreland,  Stafford,  and  the  rest 
were  near  him  as  before,  but  they  drew  instinctively 
to  one  side  of  the  entrance  to  the  keep,  so  as  to 
stand  apart  from  Surrey  and  Exeter,  who  had  been 
brought,  rather  to  their  own  surprise,  to  be  present 
at  the  meeting. 

The  arrangements  were  all  such  as  would  have  been 
appropriate  to  the  entertainment  of  one  monarch  by 
another.  Henry  himself  was  as  smiling,  as  unctu- 
ously crafty,  as  ever.  He  advanced  to  meet  the 
king,  bowed  twice,  and  addressed  him  by  his  title, 
but  did  not  in  any  other  way  acknowledge  the 
least  inferiority  of  rank.  Richard,  on  the  other 
hand,   behaved    with    a   dignity    so   perfect    that   he 


294  SUNDOWN. 

seemed  almost  to  be  unconscious  of  any  change  in 
his  own  position  or  Hereford's  since  they  last  parted. 
Beside  so  exquisite  a  piece  of  acting  the  cunning  of 
his  enemy  showed  vulgar  and  laborious. 

To  the  spectators  the  scene  was  one  of  absorbing 
interest,  for  its  exact  meaning  was  still  in  doubt,  and 
upon  that  meaning  hung  the  life  and  fortune  of  every 
one  of  them.  The  hostile  parties  drew  farther  away 
from  each  other,  to  right  and  left  of  the  great  stone 
doorway,  and  conversed  by  signs  and  monosyllables 
while  they  watched  their  two  leaders  pacing  slowly 
up  and  down  the  long  courtyard  together,  and  talk- 
ing with  the  calm  voices  and  polite  gestures  of  men 
engaged  in  friendly  negotiation.  Henry's  partisans 
appeared  to  be  the  more  anxious :  they  had  no  bond 
with  their  chief,  and  no  hold  over  him,  except  the 
bare  material  self-interests  on  each  side.  His  inten- 
tions had  never  been  confided  to  them ;  and  though 
they  had  no  reason  to  doubt  the  issue,  it  was  still 
vague,  and  their  stake  was  too  great  for  indifference. 
But  Richard's  friends  had  already  faced  their  utmost 
risk  and  looked  beyond  it.  They  could  bear  every- 
thing ;  for  they  had  seen  a  possible  hope  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  their  only  present  anxiety  was  to  know 
that  their  forecast  had  not  been  baseless  from  the 
beginning.  Exeter  alone  was  really  tortured  by  the 
suspense. 

At  one  moment  the  discussion  seemed  to  have 
reached  a  point  of  agreement,  and  hearts  beat  more 
quickly  as  the  two  royal  negotiators  oame  towards 


A  DOG  AND   A  TRAITOR.  295 

the  double  knot  of  onlookers  with  the  evident  inten- 
tion of  speaking.  But  the  alarm  was  a  false  one. 
Henry  had  nothing  yet  for  publication.  "His  majesty 
will  dine  with  us,"  he  said  to  Westmoreland.  "Let 
them  lay  for  twelve  at  once."  And  he  turned  to 
resume  his  walk  to  and  fro. 

Richard  was  a  pace  or  two  in  advance :  he  had 
moved  back  while  Henry  was  speaking,  and  his  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  gateway,  at  the  far  end  of  the 
court,  by  which  he  had  entered.  The  portcullis  was 
down,  and  through  it  could  be  seen  a  dog,  leaping 
against  the  crossed  bars  and  thrusting  his  nose 
between  them. 

"  Mat,  Mat,"  Richard  called  to  him.     "  Poor  dog ! " 

"Let  the  dog  in,"  Henry  commanded.  The  port- 
cullis began  to  rise  slowly  j  there  was  a  scramble  of 
paws  beneath  it,  and  the  king's  favourite  greyhound 
dashed  into  the  oourtyard.  He  came  swiftly  to  the 
two  figures  in  the  centre,  and  leaped  up  with  every 
sign  of  joy  upon  one  of  them :  but  that  one  was  not 
his  master. 

Richard  made  no  remark :  the  pacing  began  again, 
and  Mat  walked  by  Henry's  side.  As  the  turn  was 
reached,  close  to  the  keep,  the  king  hung  back  for  an 
instant  and  then  took  his  place,  as  if  by  accident, 
between  Henry  and  the  dog.  But  Mat,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  rebuffs  a  stranger,  immediately 
passed  behind  him  and  was  at  Henry's  side 
once  more,  thrusting  his  nose  into  the  usurper's 
hand. 


206  SUNDOWN. 

At  the  cold  touch  Henry  stopped  involuntarily. 
"What  does  the  dog  want?"  he  asked. 

"Favour,"  replied  the  king  with  a  bitter-sweet 
smile;  "it  is  a  good  sign  for  you  and  an  evil  one 
for  me." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  asked  Henry,  rather 

taken  by  surprise. 

"I  know  it  well,"  said  Richard,  turning  and  speak- 
ing so  that  everyone  could  hear  him.  "The  dog 
knows  nothing  of  persons:  he  makes  cheer  to  you 
as  king  of  England :  and  so  you  will  be ;  he  has 
this  knowledge  by  instinct.  Take  him  :  he  is  no 
worse  than  others." 

They  went  in  to  dinner :  when  the  whole  party 
were  seated  there  was  one  place  vacant. 

"Who  is  the  twelfth?"  asked  Henry,  looking 
round  him.      "Is  there  no  one  else  coming?" 

This  time  Richard  laughed  almost  gaily  as  he 
seized  his  chance.  "I  suppose  there  were  too  many 
qualified  for  the  twelfth  place,"  he  said  ;  "they  could 
not  all  come." 

Soon  after  dinner  horses  were  brought.  Richard 
had  been  carefully  kept  from  any  private  conversa- 
tion with  his  friends,  and  he  foresaw  that  he  would 
not  be  allowed  to  travel  with  them.  Before  mount- 
ing, therefore,  he  turned  to  Surrey,  "Good-bye,  Tom," 
he  said  in  his  most  natural  voice.  "  You  will  find  a 
good  lord  in  my  cousin  Henry,  but  remember  that  it 
was  I  who  made  you  a  knight." 

John    heard    the  words   and  his   heart    leapt;    to 


THE   DAY   OF  TRIAL.  297 

those  who  had  been  present  at  the  burial  of  De 
Vere,  but  to  them  only,  the  meaning  was  unmistak- 
able ;  Richard  was  appealing  once  more  to  St 
George. 

Conqueror  and  captive  rode  from  the  courtyard: 
the  portcullis  fell  again  behind  them,  and  Richard's 
friends  looked  at  one  another.  Westmoreland  came 
back  alone  to  them  from  the  gate. 

"My  lords,"  he  said,  "my  orders  are  to  wait  till 
the  Londoners  have  struck  their  camp  and  then  to 
see  you  clear.  The  king  made  it  a  condition  that 
you  should  all  six  have  a  safe-conduct." 

Exeter  drew  a  deep  breath  and  blew  out  his  purple 
cheeks :  John,  with  a  quick  side -glance,  caught  a 
very  different  gleam  on  his  lord's  face  as  they  went 
silently  into  the  keep. 


LIV. 

On  the  29th  of  September — two  years  to  a  day  since 
the  inauguration  of  his  splendid  despotism — Richard 
abdicated  the  Crown  of  England :  on  the  30th  he 
was  formally  deposed  by  Parliament,  and  Henry  of 
Lancaster,  standing  before  the  empty  throne,  chal- 
lenged the  realm  by  right  of  conquest  and  of  descent. 
The  first  of  these  claims  was  undeniable,  though 
frankly  brutal :    it    was    characteristic   of   the  man 


298  SUNDOWN. 

that  he  could  not  refrain  from  adding  the  second, 
based  as  it  was  upon  a  silly  and  scandalous  tale 
which  had  failed,  some  ten  days  before,  to  commend 
itself  even  to  his  obsequious  advisers.  But  Richard 
once  gone,  the  only  alternative  to  Lancaster  was 
the  eight -year -old  Earl  of  March;  and  the  two 
Houses  had  no  hesitation  in  covering  the  shame  of 
Henry's  pleas  with  a  decent  Parliamentary  title. 

The  coronation  took  place  on  the  12th  of  October. 
On  the  18th  began  an  inquiry  into  the  circumstances 
of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester's  death.  Sir  William  Bagot 
turaed  usurper's  evidence,  and  gave  a  voluble  account 
which  embarrassed  friends  and  foes  alike :  he  ended 
by  casting  suspicion  on  Surrey,  Exeter,  and  Aumerle. 
Surrey  shot  up  like  a  flame  and  challenged  his 
accuser  to  trial  by  battle.  The  other  two  followed 
his  example.  The  debate  which  followed  made  it 
clear  enough  that  the  two  Hollands  were  wrongly 
acoused ;  but  Aumerle  was  again  attacked  next  day, 
Lord  FitzWalter  and  a  dozen  other  peers  throwing 
their  hoods  down  before  him  on  the  floor  of  the 
House,  as  gages  of  their  readiness  to  meet  him  in 
judicial  combat.  The  scene  ended  with  the  exam- 
ination of  John  Hall,  a  servant  who  swore  to 
Aumerle's  guilt  and  his  own,  and  was  thereupon 
taken  to  the  gallows  the  same  afternoon.  On  the 
Earl  of  Northumberland's  motion  it  was  then  ordered 
that  Richard  should  be  conveyed  to  a  place  of  surety 
and  cut  off  from  all  intercourse  with  his  friends. 
Five  days  later  he  was  accordingly  taken  from  the 


THE   DAT   OF  TRIAL.  299 

Tower  by  night  and  in  disguise,  and  brought  by 
roundabout  ways  to  Pontefraot  Castle  in  Yorkshire. 
On  the  29th  the  Lords  Appellant  were  impeached. 
Their  enemies  were  literally  clamouring  for  blood, 
and  as  the  trial  degenerated  into  a  mere  howl  of 
insensate  party  rage,  even  Surrey  and  Salisbury 
began  to  despair  of  themselves  and  the  cause  they 
served.  Richard's  fate  depended  on  their  life  and 
liberty  :  if  a  charge  of  treason  could  be  successfully 
laid,  if  it  could  be  shown  that  they  had  acted  for  a 
moment  on  their  own  responsibility,  and  so  been 
technically  in  disobedience  to  the  king,  both  they 
and  he  were  lost  for  ever.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  cower :  a  horrible  extremity  for  two  of  the 
most  honourable  and  high-spirited  men  of  their 
time.  But  the  sacrifice  of  their  self-respect  was  not 
made  in  vain :  as  they  reiterated,  hour  after  hour, 
their  humiliating  plea  of  agency,  of  irresponsibility, 
of  action  under  the  king's  peremptory  command, 
and  were  answered,  hour  after  hour,  by  yells  of 
disappointed  fury,  even  Henry  shrank  from  the  sight 
of  the  evil  passions  which  had  given  life  to  his  dyn- 
asty. He  foresaw,  too,  that  his  own  popularity,  his 
own  security,  would  be  endangered  if  he  could  not 
oheck  the  savagery  of  men  like  Northumberland,  who 
served  him  only  for  plunder  and  revenge,  and  would 
serve  his  enemies  to-morrow  if  a  better  price  were 
offered.  He  therefore  closed  the  proceedings  with 
some  show  of  order  and  decenoy,  and  postponed  judg- 
ment till  the  3rd  of  November. 


300  SUNDOWN. 

In  the  few  days  which  intervened,  his  more  vin- 
dictive partisans  exhausted  every  argument  to  secure 
a  sentence  of  attainder  and  death  ;  but  they  found 
Henry  quite  unsympathetic  to  their  ferocity.  His 
distinction,  and  the  secret  of  his  success,  lay  in  his 
entire  lack  of  either  depth  or  nobility  of  feeling :  it 
was  this  which  made  him  at  once  crafty  and  smiling, 
callous  and  genial ;  which  enabled  him  to  bide  his 
time  without  impatience,  and  take  the  supreme  risk 
without  hesitation ;  to  turn  relentlessly  against  o\£ 
friends,  or  to  forgive  his  enemies  when  policy  de- 
manded it.  The  man  who,  to  conciliate  the  Arun- 
dels,  introduced  into  England  the  burning  of  heretics, 
was  the  same  who,  to  avoid  a  lasting  blood  feud  with 
the  houses  of  York,  Holland,  and  Montagu,  could 
renounce  the  temptation  to  destroy  all  their  chiefs  at 
a  single  blow. 

His  decision  was  privately  conveyed  to  the  prisoners 
and  their  friends  overnight.  The  Duchess  of  Exeter 
was  at  Dartington  with  her  two  young  sons ;  but 
Joan  was  with  her  brother,  Lord  Stafford,  and  re- 
ceived the  king's  message  at  his  house.  After  a 
hasty  consultation  with  John  Marland,  she  requested 
that  the  two  Dukes  and  their  friends,  after  judg- 
ment had  been  pronounced,  should  all  be  brought 
back  from  Westminster  by  the  king's  bodyguard, 
and  delivered  out  of  custody  at  the  gates  of  the 
New  June,  where  the  long  river  frontage  gave  them 
a  more  defensible  position  than  Tom's  own  house  in 
Friday  Street. 


STROKE    AND   COUNTERSTROKE.  301 

This  precaution  was  the  saving  of  their  lives.  The 
mob  of  Londoners,  who  had  always  favoured  Arundel 
and  fiercely  resented  his  death,  waited  on  Tower  Hill 
from  long  before  daybreak,  sure  at  last  of  their 
revenge.  When  the  prisoners  and  their  escort  were 
seen  to  have  stopped  short  in  Thames  Street,  and  the 
report  spread  that  they  had  escaped  with  life  and 
liberty,  the  rage  of  the  crowd  came  roaring  down  the 
Hill  like  a  breaker  on  a  lee  shore.  Happily  the 
troops  were  still  in  Thames  Street,  and  remained 
there  perforce,  blocking  the  narrow  entrance  com- 
pletely, until  the  fury  of  the  storm  ebbed  gradually 
away,  and  only  a  few  scowling  ragamuffins  remained 
to  jeer  through  the  great  gates  at  the  poleaxe  men 
on  guard  behind  them. 


LV. 

Once  inside,  Tom  left  his  uncle  to  do  the  honours 
of  the  house,  and  took  the  stairs  flying.  At  the  top 
his  wife  was  waiting  for  him.  "  Not  very  dignified, 
am  I  ?  "  he  said,  throwing  his  arms  about  her, — "  but 
then  I'm  not  Earl  Marshal  any  longer :  I'm  not  even 
Duke  of  Surrey." 

"What  is  that  to  me?"  she  asked,  as  she  drew 
down  his  head  and  kissed  him  once  more. 

"  If  you  must  know,"  he  replied   gaily,  "  it  is  a 


302  SUNDOWN. 

good  deal  to  you  :  you  are  only  a  poor  little  Countess 
now,  and  you've  lost  Warwick  and  the  horses  too." 

"I  have  not  lost  you."  She  took  him  by  the  hand 
and  led  him  into  the  Great  Chamber,  where  they 
were  presently  joined  by  the  others.  Joan  gave 
them  all  a  cordial  welcome,  but  no  one  said  much 
in  reply. 

John  closed  the  door  with  encouraging  sharpness, 
fixed  his  heel  carefully  against  it,  and  looked  on 
intently  ;  but  the  embarrassed  and  weary  men  before 
him  showed  no  sign  of  appreciating  their  security. 

"Come,"  said  Tom  briskly,  "  we  must  have  a  table ; 
we  can't  have  a  council  of  war  without  a  council 
table — it  is  unheard  of." 

John  brought  a  small  table  and  placed  it  opposite 
the  fire. 

"But  is  this  a  counoil  of  war?"  asked  Aumerle 
in  a  low  voice  as  they  took  their  seats. 

"Certainly  it  is,"  replied  Tom.  His  tone  was 
so  decided  that  Aumerle  started  as  if  at  a  rebuke, 
and  an  uncomfortable  silence  followed. 

"  Where  is  Lord  Dorset  ?  "  asked  Joan,  by  way  of 
making  a  fresh  start. 

"There  is  no  longer  a  Lord  Dorset."  Tom's  voice 
had  scarcely  recovered  its  cheerfulness  ;  his  wife  mis- 
understood the  words,  and  her  face  clouded. 

"No,  no!"  cried  Tom;  "but  he  is  Earl  of  Somer- 
set now,  and  he  has  gone  over  to  the  enemy."  He 
turned  to  his  companions.  "  My  wife  does  not  quite 
understand  the  position   yet.      Let  me   sum   it   up, 


STROKE    AND   COUNTERSTROKE.  303 

and  we  shall  see  exactly  how  we  stand.  In  the  first 
place,"  he  went  on,  with  a  bright  look  towards  Joan, 
"since  you  last  saw  us  we  have  all  lost  a  good  deal 
of  weight  —  in  fact,  we  have  shrunk  to  what  we 
were  two  years  ago.  My  uncle  is  Huntingdon  again, 
and  I  am  Kent, — it  feels  rather  like  putting  on  our 
own  cast-off  olothes.  Aunierle  is  Rutland,  and  Des- 
penser  here  has  to  drop  his  earldom.  Salisbury  is 
Salisbury  still,  because  he  never  became  anything 
elS6) — that  shows  how  much  better  it  is  never  to 
accept  promotion:  you  run  no  risk  of  having  to 
forget  your  own  name." 

Salisbury  laughed  and  nodded  ;  but  he  was  the 
only  one  of  the  party  with  a  spark  of  humour  left 
in  him.  Huntingdon  growled  at  his  nephew's  light- 
hearted  tone.     "  If  it  were  only  my  name  !  " 

"  It  is  not  only  our  names,"  Tom  continued,  still 
speaking  to  his  wife ;  "  we  are  all  to  lose  whatever 
lands,  charters,  or  money  we  have  received  since  '97. 
I  don't  know  who  is  to  get  them,  but  it  really 
doesn't  matter,  the  whole  thing  is  just  a  pastime — 
something  to  occupy  the  other  side  during  the  inter- 
regnum." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  said 
Rutland  with  an  uneasy  look  at  Joan  ;  "  you  seem 
to  have  forgotten  the  sentence  —  the  condition 
about " 

"Oh  yes,  I  know,"  Tom  interrupted;  "about  not 
adhering  to  the  late  King  Richard,  and  being  liable 
to  the  usual  penalties  for  high  treason,  and  so  on. 


304  SUNDOWN. 

Well,  we  do  adhere  to  the  late  King  Richard,  don't 
we?  and  we  are  liable  to  the  usual  penalties,  and  we 
ought  to  be  thankful  for  it." 

"  I  don't  see  that,"  Huntingdon  grumbled.  "  What 
have  I  got  to  be  thankful  for  ?  " 

"My  dear  uncle,"  replied  Tom,  "isn't  it  better 
to  be  liable  to  penalties  than  to  pay  them  ?  Henry 
has  struck  us  with  a  blunt  weapon :  we  shall  strike 
him  with  a  sharp  one  when  our  turn  comes." 

Rutland  was  looking  pale  and  unhappy.  "  When 
our  turn  comes  ?  "  he  mumbled.  "  That  will  be  long 
enough." 

"It  will  be  at  the  earliest  possible  opportunity," 
replied  Kent ;  "  that  is,  the  first  time  Henry  gives  a 
tournament." 

"  Why  a  tournament  ?  " 

"  Well,  any  kind  of  festivity  that  will  serve  as  an 
excuse  for  our  coming  near  him  armed  and  all 
together." 

Rutland's  furtive  eye  glanced  again  towards  Joan. 
She  saw  that  he  mistrusted  her,  and  rose  to  go,  with 
the  haughty  little  air  that  became  her  best. 

"  My  husband  is  my  lord,"  she  said,  "  and  King 
Richard  is  his ;  your  secrets  are  as  safe  with  me  as 
with  yourselves." 

She  had  meant  to  leave  them  to  their  own  counsel, 
but  Rutland  seized  the  opportunity  to  break  off  the 
discussion :  the  suspense  of  the  last  few  days,  the 
judgment  pronounced  that  morning,  and  the  outburst 


STROKE    AND   COUNTERSTROKE.  305 

of  the  mob,   had  shaken  his  nerves,  and  he  winced 
from  even  the  thought  of  further  risk. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Kent,  as  they  all  rose  together, 
"  then  we  must  meet  again ;  shall  we  say  in  three 
days'  time,  and  in  this  house  ?  We  can  all  come  and 
go  as  we  like  here,  because  we  have  the  river." 

It  was  by  river  that  they  now  departed ;  Lord 
Huntingdon  conveyed  Rutland,  Salisbury,  and  Des- 
penser  to  the  boat,  and  John  found  himself  alone 
in  the  room  with  his  master  and  mistress. 

They  had  forgotten  him :  Joan's  head  was  hidden 
against  her  husband's  shoulder,  and  she  was  weeping 
silently. 

"  Never  fear,  sweetheart,"  said  Tom  ;  "  a  few 
months  at  most,  and  we'll  make  the  New  June 
blossom  again  like  the  rose." 

The  words  sounded  to  John  like  an  ill  omen  :  they 
did  not  seem  to  cheer  his  lady  much. 

"  Must  you  ? "  he  heard  her  saying,  "  must  it  all 
begin  again?     Have  we  not  enough?" 

Tom  held  her  fast  and  looked  down  with  a  smile  of 
indulgent  tenderness.  "  Enough  ? — while  Riohard  has 
nothing  ?  " 

The  words  swept  like  a  sea-wind  through  every 
corner  of  John's  brain :  he  straightened  himself 
proudly,  as  if  to  the  flapping  of  a  standard  over- 
head. 


306  SUNDOWN. 


LVI. 

The  company  of  those  who  remained  faithful  to 
Richard  was  now  reduced  to  the  smallest  possible 
number,  but  it  was  still  powerful,  and  it  soon  began 
to  grow.  At  the  meeting  on  the  6  th  of  November 
there  were  present  three  additional  members,  the 
Bishop  of  Carlisle,  the  Abbot  of  Westminster,  and 
Ralph,  Lord  Lumley ;  these  were  joined  within  the 
month  by  Sir  Thomas  Blount,  Sir  John  Shelley,  Sir 
Barnard  Brooas,  and  others.  No  one  suspected  the 
design  of  the  four  Earls ;  there  was  even  a  slight 
revulsion  of  feeling  in  their  favour,  and  Henry  seemed 
to  be  playing  into  their  hands  when  in  December 
he  announced  his  intention  of  keeping  Christmas  at 
Windsor  and  ending  the  festivities  with  a  Twelfth- 
night  tournament. 

The  loyalists  at  once  held  a  final  council,  at  which 
Lord  Kent  proposed  that  the  whole  party  should 
meet  two  days  beforehand  at  Kingston-on-Thames 
and  ride  together  to  Windsor  as  if  arriving  for  the 
tournament.  Confederates  could  be  found  to  admit 
them  to  the  Castle  during  the  night :  then,  when 
once  they  had  made  sure  of  Henry  and  his  son,  they 
would  proclaim  Richard,  send  messengers  to  France, 
and  raise  the  country  in  every  direction. 

The  plan  seemed  full  of  promise  to  every  one  but 


ON  THE   FAITH   OF   MY    BODY.  307 

Rutland,  who  was  still  in  a  pitifully  depressed  state. 
He  agreed,  however,  to  stand  in  with  the  rest;  and 
the  meeting  broke  up  with  the  understanding  that 
the  members  were  to  assemble  at  dusk  on  January  4 
without  further  summons,  and  in  the  meantime  to 
give  no  sign  of  activity,  even  to  each  other. 

Tom  went  straight  to  inform  his  wife,  who  was 
waiting  in  Lady  Huntingdon's  room,  and  John  sat 
in  the  corridor  outside.  Presently  the  door  opened, 
and  Margaret  Ingleby  came  out. 

John  sprang  up  to  greet  her,  but  she  seemed 
hardly  to  remember  who  he  was.  Her  hand  lay  in 
both  his  while  she  spoke  to  him,  without  resistance, 
but  without  any  touch  of  recognition. 

"I  have  heard  your  plot,"  she  began.  "I  have 
nothing  to  say  about  that,  but  you  have  forgotten 
the  only  thing  I  care  about." 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  with  a  quickening  of  anxiety. 

"Lord  Stafford  will  be  there — with  the  king." 

John  was  thunderstruck  :  he  had  indeed  forgotten. 
But  she  was  right.  Lord  Stafford  was  a  prime 
favourite  with  Henry :  he  had  married  the  heiress 
of  the  murdered  Gloucester ;  he  was  to  have  the 
next  vacant  Garter  Stall ;  he  was  the  most  rising 
young  man  at  Court.  Certainly  he  would  be  at 
Windsor,  and  if  the  plot  succeeded  he  could  not 
fail  to  be  among  those  marked  for  death. 

But  here  a  sudden  rage  came  over  John  as  he 
realised  the  two-edged  horror  of  the  position.     What 


308  SUNDOWN. 

was  one  life  that  it  should  weigh  against  so  many 
— against  King  Richard's  own  ? 

"What  can  we  do?"  he  asked  in  low  fierce  tones. 
"  Would  you  destroy  us  all  ?  " 

"  I  would  destroy  myself." 

"  Youi'self ! "  he  groaned,  more  exasperated  still. 
"  How  could  you  save  him  if  my  lord  cannot  ? 
You  know  John  Holland  and  the  rest  too — there'll 
be  no  one  for  mercy  this  time." 

He  would  have  tossed  her  hand  away,  but  her 
clasp  tightened  firmly  upon  him.  "  He  must  be 
warned,"  she  said ;  "he  must,  and  since  none  of 
you  can  do  it,  I  will." 

Her  deep  musical  voice  had  its  old  power  over 
him.  His  anger  passed,  and  he  saw  her  as  she 
was,  daring  everything  for  a  mistress  whose  own 
loyalty  could  ask  nothing,  even  for  the  brother  she 
loved.  But  his  face  was  sterner  than  ever,  for  the 
danger  grew  more  terrible  as  he  looked  upon  it. 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  "do  what  you  will  with  me. 
I  gave  gladly,  and  I'll  not  repent ;  but  I  cannot  give 
you  Richard." 

"  Richard  is  mine  as  well  as  yours ;  if  he  goes  I 
lose  you  all." 

His  eyes  thanked  her,  but  he  shook  his  head.  "  I 
promise  you,"  he  pleaded,  "that  I  will  defend  Stafford 
with  my  life.  Surely  that  is  enough.  They  will 
think  twice  before  they  part  with  me." 

"No,"  she  answered,  "it  is  not  enough.  You  have 
said  yourself  that  I  know  John  Holland." 


GONE   away!  309 

"You  have  my  promise,"  he  said  stubbornly ;  "you 
cannot  ask  more." 

She  pressed  his  hand,  and  walked  slowly  away. 
He  looked  after  her  without  moving. 


LVII. 

The  4th  of  January  had  come.  By  sunset  the 
Earls  of  Kent  and  Huntingdon  were  at  Kingston; 
by  six  o'clock,  when  darkness  fell  on  the  short 
winter's  day,  400  lances  had  assembled,  and  other 
troops  were  reported  on  the  march.  Of  the  chiefs, 
only  one  was  absent  from  the  rendezvous.  If  it 
had  been  any  other  than  Rutland,  his  failure  might 
have  oaused  alarm ;  but  the  party  was  strong  enough 
to  spare  its  weakest  member,  and  no  one  suspected 
him  of  courage  enough  to  betray  the  plot. 

By  half -past  six  the  moon  was  rising:  she  waa 
only  a  day  or  two  past  the  full,  and  as  the  clear 
frosty  light  broadened  up  the  sky  impatience  began 
to  grow  on  the  conspirators.  Mounted  messengers 
had  been  sent  out  to  look  for  signs  of  Rutland's 
approach.  Shortly  before  eight  they  returned  with- 
out tidings,  and  Lord  Kent  gave  the  word  to  start 
without  him. 

By  eleven  the  head  of  the  column  had  reached 
Froginoie,  and  Lord  Kent  halted  to  enable  the  rear- 


310  SUNDOWN. 

guard  to  come  up.  Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later 
Jolm  stood  uuder  the  shadow  of  the  castle,  aud 
rapped  out  the  signal  upon  the  secret  gate. 

It  was  opened  immediately.  John  passed  the  word 
back  to  those  who  followed,  stepped  inside,  and  went 
forward  a  pace  or  two. 

The  porter  hung  about  him  :  the  man  seemed 
uneasy,  but  quite  devoid  of  caution.  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  touching  his  cap,  "but  if  you 
want  to  see  the  king,  I'm  afraid  you're  too  late.  I 
hope  I  shan't  lose  my  bargain,  sir." 

"  Where  is  the  king  ?  "  asked  John  sharply. 

"He  went  to  London,  sir,  this  evening  early." 

John's  head  was  whirling.  He  looked  round  at  the 
crowd  of  armed  men  pouring  into  the  courtyard,  and 
saw  his  lord  among  them. 

"The  king  is  gone,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice;  "the 
porter  says  he  is  gone  to  London." 

"Oh,  is  he?  "  replied  Kent  coolly  ;  "we'll  see  about 
that." 

He  ordered  the  porter  into  custody,  drew  up  his 
men  in  four  companies,  and  gave  directions  for  the 
whole  castle  to  be  seized  and  searched  in  detail. 

No  opposition  was  offered :  but  neither  king  nor 
courtiers  were  found.  The  chiefs  stood  in  the 
moonlight  looking  at  one  another  with  eyes  that 
recognised  defeat,  but  refused  to  acknowledge  it. 

"Try  the  canons'  houses,"  said  Lord  Kent,  "and 
you,  John,  look  into  the  Great  Gateway." 

His  men  dashed  off  in  front   of  him.      Before  he 


MARCH   AND    COUNTERMARCH.  311 

could  reach  the  gateway  tower  they  were  dragging 
out  a  prisoner.  But  it  was  not  the  king :  it  was 
Margaret  Ingleby. 

"I  oame  to  see  a  friend,"  she  said,  "but  I  was 
too  late;  the  Duke  of  York  was  here  already." 

John  saw  that  he  must  clear  her  before  the  men, 
and  that  quickly. 

"  My  lord ! "  he  shouted  across  the  moonlit  green, 
"Lord  Rutland  has  betrayed  us,  the  king  has  gone 
to  London." 

"Right!"  shouted  Tom  in  reply;  "then  we  are 
for  London  too.     Fall  inl" 


LVIII. 

The  real  war  had  come  at  last,  and  Tom  was  in 
his  element.  He  marched  eastward  with  a  dash 
which  put  heart  into  his  men ;  halted  them  at 
Colnbrook  to  avoid  fatigue,  and  made  a  great 
parade  of  taking  up  a  strategic  position  there, 
where  the  roads  branched  off  to  Windsor  and 
Maidenhead.  His  right  flank  could  be  turned  by 
Horton,  and  he  knew  it ;  but  he  had  no  real  object 
in  covering  Windsor,  for  if  he  were  compelled  to 
fall  back  at  all,  it  must  be  towards  Maidenhead 
and  Oxford,  keeping  open  the  direct  route  to  Wales, 
the  last  possible  rallyiug-ground  of  Richard's  cause. 


312  SUNDOWN. 

In  the  meantime  scouts  were  sent  out  towards 
London,  and  messengers  to  the  rear,  to  hurry  on 
the  promised  reinforcements,  some  small  bodies  of 
which  were  already  reported  close  at  hand. 

After  six  hours'  rest  and  a  plentiful  dinner  every 
one  appeared  to  be  in  good  spirits.  John  tried  in 
vain  to  catch  his  lord  off  guard  for  a  moment  and 
learn  his  true  estimate  of  their  chances.  He  ended 
by  adopting  his  working  hypothesis  that  all  was 
going  well. 

At  noon  Margaret  came  to  say  good-bye  to  him. 
She  was  to  return  to  Lady  Kent  at  Kingston,  and 
take  her  straight  to  Chester;  from  there  it  would 
be  easy  for  them  to  rejoin  Lord  Kent,  or  escape 
to  France  by  sea,  as  the  occasion  required. 

These  alternatives  were  spoken  of  with  matter- 
of-fact  hardness  on  both  sides.  Margaret  whatever 
she  felt,  could  not  afford  to  spend  her  strength 
immediately  before  her  journey.  John  was  fettered 
by  a  masculine  shame :  while  there  is  still  the 
remotest  chance  of  survival,  a  man,  and  especially 
an  Englishman,  dare  not  risk  his  self-respect  in  the 
naked  farewell  words  of  the  long  parting.  Even  to 
himself  his  heart  said  nothing  unendurable,  as  he 
watched  her  take  the  road  and  listened  to  the 
rattle  of  hoofs  dying  away  between  the  frosted 
hedgerows. 

He  returned  to  find  the  chiefs  m  council.  Scouts 
had  brought  in  a  man  of  Rutland's  :  whether  he 
came   on    his  own   account   or  his   master's,   no    one 


MAIDENHEAD   BRIDGE.  313 

but  Lord  Kent  ever  knew ;  but  he  brought  heavy 
news.  London  had  risen  with  enthusiasm,  and 
Henry  was  marching  with  no  less  than  sixteen 
thousand  men. 

"I  put  six  for  sixteen,"  said  Tom  as  he  informed 
his  colleagues ;  "  but  six  are  enough  to  move  us 
from  here.  We  must  find  something  we  can  really 
hold  against  odds,  till  our  friends  come  in." 

They  drew  off  to  Maidenhead  at  once  and  barri- 
caded the  bridge.  The  town  afforded  excellent 
quarters,  while  the  advance-guard  of  Henry's  force, 
arriving  at  dusk,  had  to  shiver  through  the  frosty 
night  on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  river.  John 
counted  their  watch-fires,  and  saw  that  new  ones 
were  continually  being  added  :  there  was  little 
doubt  that  the  attack  would  begin  at  daybreak. 


LTX. 

An  hour  before  dawn  Lord  Despenser  and  Sir 
Thomas  Blount  moved  quietly  off  in  the  direction 
of  Henley  with  the  baggage  train  and  all  the  un- 
mounted troops.  John  perceived  that  a  general 
retreat  had  begun,  and  that  the  coming  fight  was 
to  be  merely  a  rear-guard  action ;  but  what  were 
the  chances  of  success  he  could  not  tell.  He  stood 
with    his   lord    at    the   door    of    their    lodging,    and 


314  SUNDOWN. 

watched  in  the  growing  light  while  the  ammunition 
waggons  were  brought  forward  again  into  position 
within  a  quarter-mile  of  the  river  bank. 

"John,"  said  Lord  Kent  in  a  quiet  unemphatic 
voice,  "if  any  one  remarks  on  my  uncle's  absence, 
you.  can  say  that  he  went  last  night  to  Berkham- 
stead  to  bring  up  reinforcements." 

John  started  as  if  he  had  been  struck. 

"You  see  the  plan,"  said  his  lord  almost  sternly. 
"  If  he  finds  himself  in  sufficient  force,  he  comes 
down  on  Henry's  rear :  if  not,  he  makes  for  Marlow 
and  goes  west  with  the  others." 

"I  see,"  replied  John,  looking  him  straight  in 
the  face ;   "  was  the  plan  yours  or  his  ?  " 

"The  ammunition  is  all  forward  now,  I  think," 
said  his  lord;  "it  is  time  we  were  following." 

Trumpets  were  sounding  on  both  sides  as  they 
came  within  sight  of  the  bridge.  A  group  of  officers 
clustered  round  Lord  Kent  immediately. 

"I  see  you  have  all  found  your  places,"  he  said 
cheerfully,  "  archers  to  right  and  left  —  they  will 
take  open  order  at  once:  keep  the  shooting  under 
control  as  far  as  possible,  and  see  that  the  waggoners 
feed  the  fighting  line  with  arrows.  The  men-at-arms 
will  remain  in  column  on  the  road,  and  take  their 
orders  from  my  trumpet :  they  will  charge  in  troops 
of  forty  each — ten  abreast." 

The  enemy  were  not  so  methodical:  they  were 
commanded  by  Sir  Robert  Neville,  a  gallant  but 
inexperienced   young    man,   who  wished  to   make   a 


MATDENHEAD    BRIDGE.  315 

reputation  before  his  superiors  could  overtake  hiin 
with  the  main  army.  Being  comparatively  weak 
in  archers,  he  was  compelled  to  force  the  fighting: 
his  billmen  to  the  number  of  over  a  thousand  were 
drawn  up  in  a  crescent,  ready  to  converge  upon  the 
bridge-head,  with  a  reserve  of  equal  numbers  behind 
them;  and  in  front  of  both  his  wings  a  thin  line 
of  bows  was  thrown  forward  to  divert  the  atten- 
tion of  Lord  Kent's  marksmen  from  the  point  of 
attack. 

This,  however,  they  were  unable  to  do.  The 
barricades  upon  the  bridge  were  very  slight — they 
were  rather  obstacles  than  barriers, — but  the  road- 
way was  flat,  and  the  low  parapets  gave  little  or 
no  cover.  Salisbury's  archers  had  the  range  exactly, 
and  the  assailants  had  barely  time  to  tear  down 
the  first  breastwork  of  hurdles  and  rush  into  the 
narrow  passage,  before  the  head  of  their  column 
was  completely  snowed  under.  For  a  moment  or 
two  John  saw  the  converging  pressure  from  behind 
force  more  and  more  men  forward  to  fall  writhing 
and  shouting  over  those  who  had  already  fallen  in 
front :  then  almost  before  he  realised  what  was 
happening,  the  bugle-horns  sounded  sharply  to  right 
and  left,  and  the  arrow  -  sleet  was  suddenly  over. 
The  enemy  were  scattering  out  of  range.  Lord 
Kent's  loss  was  very  slight ;  his  archers  had  been 
strong  enough  to  dominate  the  enemy's,  as  well  as 
to  destroy  the  advance,  and  he  cheerfully  consented 
to  an  hour's  truce  for  the  removal  of  the  wounded, 


316  SUNDOWN. 

upon  condition  that  the  two  remaining  barriers 
should  not  be  touched. 

Before  this  work  was  finished  the  sun  rose  in 
great  splendour :  John  saw  the  first  clear  ray  flash 
on  his  lord's  helm  and  fire  the  golden  lions  on  his 
surcoat,  as  he  rode  across  the  front  to  speak  to 
Salisbury.     The  men  saw  it  too,  and  raised  a  cheer. 

Tom  came  back  smiling.  "  Salisbury's  fellows  wish 
this  could  last  for  ever,"  he  said  to  John,  "but  it 
can't." 

John  felt  a  strange  elation  gaining  on  him. 

"It  has  lasted  too  long  for  those  poor  fellows 
yonder."  He  pointed  to  the  slow  march  of  the 
dead  and  wounded  opposite. 

"Not  a  bit,"  replied  Tom,  still  radiant;  "it  is 
a  good  day  to  die  on,  this — wait  and  see." 

The  light  on  his  face  shone  full  into  John's 
mind,  and  cleared  up  his  doubt.  They  were  lost: 
his  lord  knew  it.  A  moment  afterwards  he  realised 
that  his  anxieties  too  had  all  vanished :  he  was 
happy,  like  his  two  radiant  chiefs,  with  a  careless 
happiness  that  he  had  never  known  before. 

The  trumpets  were  sounding  again.  Neville  had 
put  his  fresh  troops  in  the  front  line  and  was 
repeating  his  desperate  attack.  This  time  the 
second  barrier  went  down,  but  again  the  tide  of 
the  advance  was  choked  by  its  own  dead. 

"We  must  rebuild,"  John  began  to  suggest  to 
the  man  beside  him.  But  as  he  spoke  he  saw  the 
enemy  in  their  retreat  throwing  the  broken  hurdles 


MAIDENHEAD   BRIDGE.  317 

down  into  the  river.  He  looked  round  at  his 
lord. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Tom,  "it  is  not  over  yet." 

He  rode  forward  to  reoeive  the  flag  of  truce 
himself. 

"Listen,"  he  said  to  the  herald.  "Take  my  com- 
pliments to  Sir  Robert  Neville,  and  say  that  I 
wish  he  would  give  me  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
him  in  person  on  the  usual  terms.  His  next 
attack  will  finish  the  affair  one  way  or  the  other, 
and  the  opportunity  will  have  gone  by.  Say  that 
I  propose  to  be  on  the  bridge  ten  minutes  after 
hearing  his  trumpet,  with  one  squire  only,  no  one 
else  to  be  within  a  furlong  on  either  side." 

This  offer  seemed  as  reasonable  and  attractive 
to  Sir  Robert  as  to  the  challenger  himself :  it  in 
no  way  conflicted  with  his  ideas  on  the  duty  of 
a  commander.  Some  little  time  was  taken  up  in 
arranging  for  the  further  conduct  of  the  action  in 
the  event  of  his  being  disabled ;  but  at  last  his 
trumpet  rang  out,  and  Lord  Kent  called  for  his 
helmet. 

"Remember  St  Inglebert,"  said  John  before  he 
buckled  it  on,  "go  in  at  your  fastest  pace  and 
oome  sharply  forward  as  you  cope." 

"I  wish  Edmund  were  here,"  returned  his  lord; 
"ask  him  to  forgive  me  for  sending  him  off  to 
France." 

The  last  barrier  was  opened,  and  the  champions 
sat  motionless  on  their  horses  in  full  sight  of  both 


3 1 8  SUNDOWN. 

armies.  Bills  and  bows  were  forgotten,  and  the 
two  lines  pressed  forward,  even  within  the  forbidden 
distance  of  each  other. 

When  the  laissez- aller  sounded,  Neville  started 
at  once.  Kent  hung  back  for  a  moment,  and  then 
launched  himself  like  an  arrow.  At  the  instant 
before  meeting  his  opponent  he  bent  forward  sud- 
denly, as  he  had  seen  Reynault  de  Roye  do  ten 
years  ago,  his  spear  and  shoulder  in  one  piece. 
Upon  him  the  shock  seemed  hardly  to  take  effect 
at  all ;  to  his  opponent  it  was  fatal.  Sir  Robert 
was  flung  against  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  and 
was  taken  up  with  his  neck  broken. 

Broken,  too,  was  the  spirit  of  the  attacking  army : 
they  made  but  a  feeble  reply  to  the  triumphant 
cheering  of  their  adversaries,  and  soon  afterwards 
were  seen  to  be  busy  about  dinner:  they  had  not 
even  asked  for  a  truce.  Their  inaction  lasted  until 
sunset,  when  some  of  Northumberland's  troops 
arrived,  and  a  third  assault  was  ordered. 

This  time  the  column  was  headed  by  a  hundred 
men-at-arms,  who  marched  slowly  on  foot  to  the 
entrance  of  the  bridge  and  were  then  thrust  for- 
ward, like  a  steel  spear-head,  by  the  rush  of  un- 
armoured  troops  behind  them.  The  arrows  clashed 
upon  their  plates  like  hail  on  glass,  and  many  fell : 
but  the  rest  succeeded  in  breaking  the  last  barrier 
and  staggering  forward  a  few  paces  on  to  the  open 
ground.  Then  a  trumpet  sounded  three  times  in 
rapid  succession,  and  three  troops  of  mounted  men 


BLOCKHAM   FEAST.  319 

in  heavy  armour  fell  upon  them  like  three  great 
oaks  falling  among  underwood  :  behind  them  in 
the  twilight  the  storm  of  arrows,  more  terrible  now 
because  unseen,  choked  the  bridge  once  more  with 
dying  and  dead. 

There  were  fresh  men  and  desperate  men  in  this 
attack :  but  it  failed  at  last,  and  Lord  Kent  dic- 
tated his  own  terms  for  the  night.  The  prisoners 
he  returned,  with  a  hand-shake  and  a  light  word 
of  good-bye  to  each  :  even  Stutterville,  thought 
John,  was  never  in  a  happier  or  more  charming 
mood. 


LX. 


The  rear-guard  action  was  over,  and  Lord  Kent, 
in  spite  of  the  risk  involved  in  his  chivalrous 
challenge,  had  successfully  achieved  his  object.  He 
had  secured  for  Despenser's  men  a  clear  start  of 
twenty-four  hours,  and  had  now  only  to  disengage 
himself  and  follow  with  the  mounted  troops.  This 
proved  easy,  in  spite  of  the  stillness  of  the  night 
and  the  broad  moonlight  which  lasted  till  morning. 
The  town  formed  an  effectual  screen  for  the  move- 
ment :  the  waggons  were  abandoned  where  they 
stood,  the  armour  and  ammunition  was  all  placed 
upon   pack-horses,    and    by  five  o'clock  the  last  of 


320  SUNDOWN. 

the  little  army  slipped  off  unperceived  by  the  enemy, 
leaving  behind  them  only  a  score  of  wounded  men 
hidden  in  cottages,  and  a  few  lights  burning  on 
their  last  barricade. 

It  was  still  twilight  when  they  came  to  Henley : 
there  they  tore  down  the  stone  parapet  of  the  bridge 
at  both  ends,  and  piled  the  broken  masonry  in  the 
centre.  Two  hours  later  they  did  the  same  at  Wal- 
lingford  :  the  archers  grumbled  aloud  as  they  turned 
away  from  a  breastwork  which,  as  they  said,  they 
could  have  held  against  St  Michael  and  all  the 
angels. 

At  Abingdon  they  dined  and  rested  :  Despenser 
had  slept  there  the  night  before,  but  had  left  again 
very  early,  and  was  now  some  ten  or  eleven  hours 
in  advance.  The  sun  set  before  they  reached  Far- 
ringdon,  and  it  was  pitch  -  dark  when  they  rode 
into  Fairford,  for  the  moon  was  not  yet  up.  She 
rose  at  ten  o'clock  and  lighted  them  to  Cirencester, 
where  they  were  to  meet  Despenser.  He  had,  how- 
ever, marched  through  the  town  and  left  a  message 
that  he  was  encamped  in  a  park  on  the  far  side: 
Lord  Kent  accordingly  sent  on  his  men  to  join 
forces,  and  fixed  his  own  headquarters  at  the  prin- 
cipal inn,  looking  out  upon  the  market-place.  Salis- 
bury and  Lumley  remained  with  him,  attended 
only  by  a  chaplain  and  secretary  and  two  squires, 
as  well  as  John  Marland :  even  for  these  the  house 
could  hardly  provide  room.  But  after  such  a  day's 
work  they  had  no  difficulty  in  sleeping  soundly. 


BLOCKHAM   FEAST.  321 

Tho  moon  was  far  down  the  sky,  but  it  was  not 
yet  day,  when  John  was  awakened  by  a  loud  knock- 
ing upon  the  street  door.  Through  the  iron  window 
bars  of  the  ground-floor  room,  which  he  was  sharing 
with  the  other  two  body-squires,  he  saw  a  group  of 
pole-axemen,  two  of  whom  were  oarrying  enormous 
horn  lanterns. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?     Who  are  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  am  the  bailiff  of  this  town,"  answered  a  voice 
in  the  shadow  of  the  house,  "and  I  demand  ad- 
mittance in  the  king's  name." 

"Be  good  enough,"  replied  John,  "to  demand  it 
again  in  a  couple  of  hours'  time." 

"  That  is  a  servant's  answer,"  retorted  the  voice. 
"  Where  are  your  masters  ?  " 

"I  am  here,"  said  Lord  Kent,  who  had  come  down- 
stairs on  hearing  the  noise,  followed  immediately 
by  Lords  Salisbury  and  Lumley. 

A  lantern  was  held  up,  and  a  face  peered  into  the 
room. 

"Thomas,  Earl  of  Kent,  John,  Earl  of  Salisbury, 
and  Ralph,  Lord  Lumley,  I  summon  you  to  sur- 
render as  rebels  and  traitors  to  our  Lord  King 
Henry." 

Lord  Lumley  had  been  eyeing  the  pole  -  axemen. 
They  were  neither  young  nor  smart-looking :  there 
was  something  humorous  about  so  pompous  a  de- 
mand so  insufficiently  backed. 

"Arrested  by  the  watch!"  he  cried;  "and  fined, 
I  daresay ! " 

X 


322  SUNDOWN. 

"  Steady ! "  said  Salisbury  in  a  low  tone ;  "  this 
may  be  serious." 

Kent  thought  so  too.  "  Perhaps  you  will  be  con- 
tent to  wait  while  we  finish  dressing  ? "  he  said 
courteously. 

The  bailiff  agreed,  and  his  men  fell  back  a  few 
paces.  The  three  lords  went  upstairs  to  consult, 
and   took  John  with  them. 

"In  the  open,"  said  Kent,  "these  fellows  would 
give  us  no  trouble.  There  are  only  ten  of  them,  and 
we  are  eight — seven  with  sword  and  dagger.  But 
we  must  know  where  we  are  going  if  we  make 
a  rush  for  it.  They  will  have  shut  the  town 
gates." 

"We  can't  hold  the  house,  I  suppose,"  suggested 
Salisbury,  "till  Despenser  comes?" 

Kent  shook  his  head.  "It's  a  mere  cockle-shell, 
and  we  don't  know  how  long  he  may  be.  I  fixed 
no  hour,   and  he  may  have  to  break  in." 

They  looked  out  into  the  wide  street,  where  day- 
light was   beginning  to   appear  at  last. 

"There's  the  church,"  said  Salisbury,  pointing 
across  the  market-place  to  a  large  building  with 
scaffolding  upon  it.  "It  looks  new.  I  hope  it  is 
consecrated,"  he  added  with  a  smile. 

"  I  hope  it  is  defensible,"  Luuiley  replied,  laughing. 

"  I  daresay  it  will  serve  our  turn  one  way  or  the 
other,"  said  Kent.  "Let  us  go  down  and  see  this 
bailiff." 

They  took  their  swords  and  went  down. 


BLOCKHAM   FEAST.  323 

"I  understand,  sir,"  said  Lord  Kent  through  the 
window,  "  that  you  regard  us  as  your  prisoners  ? 
I  offer  ransom." 

"I  am  a  gentleman,  my  lord,"  replied  the  bailiff 
curtly. 

"The  more  reason,"  urged  Lord  Kent;  "a  gentle- 
man always  puts  his  prisoner  to  ransom." 

"  The  cases  are  different :  I  have  not  taken  you 
in  fight." 

"Good!"  said  Lord  Kent.  "We  can  put  that 
right  at  once.     Have  you  a  sword  and  dagger?" 

"I  decline  the  honour,"  replied  the  other  with 
a  cold  patience. 

Lumley  was  annoyed.  "  Why  did  you  call  your- 
self a  gentleman,  then  ? "  he  asked. 

"I  bear  coat  armour." 

"I  should  think  so!"  cried  Lumley:  "a  demi- 
lion  faineant ! " 

Salisbury  gave  a  half-groaning  laugh.  "  There's 
an  end  of  that,"  he  said;   "it  is  time  to  go  now." 

They  filed  deliberately  out  into  the  passage.  John 
unbarred  the  door  with  one  quick  movement,  and 
the  seven  swordsmen  went  through  the  watch 
without  a  single  effective  blow  on  either  side.  The 
bailiff  alone  followed  them  with  sword  drawn, 
shouting  angrily  to  his  men  to  come  on.  The 
poleaxes  were  unused  to  charging,  except  with  the 
butt. 

At  the  ohurch  porch  there  was  a  moment's  pause: 
the   door   proved   to  be  unlocked,  and  the  fugitives 


324  SUNDOWN. 

slippod  through  it  one  by  one,  while  Lord  Lumley 
faced  the  bailiff. 

"  Come,  sir,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  let  us  part 
friends :  now  that  we  are  out  of  your  hands,  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  my  jest." 

"Very  likely." 

Lumley  went  in,  and  the  door  was  bolted  behind 
him.  "  He's  a  deadly  beast,  this  bailiff,"  he  said 
to  the  others;    "he  means  mischief  yet." 

"  We  are  in  sanctuary,"  answered  Kent,  "  and 
here  we  stay  till  Despenser  comes." 

"  H'm — I  have  my  doubts,"  said  Salisbury. 

"You  Lollards  always  have,"  Lumley  replied. 

As  time  went  by,  voices  were  heard  outside  :  a 
crowd  was  evidently  collecting.  The  prisoners 
climbed  upon  benches  and  looked  out  of  one  of  the 
great  windows.  The  market-place  was  half -full  of 
men  armed  and  unarmed,  and  the  bailiff  stood  in 
the  middle  arguing  with  a  knot  of  burgesses. 

"  Ha  !  the  sun  is  rising,"  said  one  of  the  squires 
presently;  "Lord  Despenser  will  be  stirring  now." 

No  one  replied.  John  looked  uneasily  at  his 
master.     Was  he,  too,  beginning  to  doubt? 

Ten  minutes  passed  :  the  mob  grew  steadily.  A 
cart  arrived,  bringing  a  great  balk  of  timber. 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Salisbury,  "  I  thought  so ;  they  are 
going  to  batter  us." 

"  I  wonder  how  long  that  will  take  ? "  said  Tom, 
fingering  his  hilt. 

At  this  moment  a  loud  shout  was  heard.     "Fire 


BLOCKHAM    FEAST.  325 

fire  ! "  The  cry  came  from  the  south-east  coruei  of 
the  market-place,  where  smoke  was  seen  rising  from 
the  back  of  the  houses. 

"  Lucky  !  "  said  someone. 

"That's  no  luck,"  answered  Lumley.  "That's  my 
priest :  he  stayed  behind  when  we  ran  out  of  the 
inn.     Good  man  !     That  will  keep  the  wasps  busy  ! " 

"A  priest  all  over,"  said  Salisbury,  "he  has  only 
maddened  them." 

It  was  quite  true :  a  dozen  or  two  of  those  more 
immediately  concerned  went  off  to  extinguish  the 
fire,  but  the  rest  ran  with  loud  shouts  to  get  out 
their  battering-ram.  The  priest  had  only  succeeded 
in  destroying  their  scruples. 

The  prisoners  stood  upon  the  steps  of  the  high 
altar  and  consulted. 

"  Shall  we  fight  them  here  or  make  a  rush  for 
it  when  the  door  gives?"  asked  Tom.  His  eyes 
were  bright  again  and  his  hands  restless. 

"Neither,"  replied  Salisbury  ;  "  we  must  surrender 
before  they  break  in." 

He  went  quickly  to  the  door :  the  ram  had  reached 
the  entrance  of  the  porch. 

"Is  the  bailiff  there?"  he  shouted.  "We  wish 
to  parley  with  the  bailiff." 

"I  am  here,"  said  the  cold  voice  they  knew;  "I 
give  you  ten  minutes'  truce." 

The  door  was  opened,  and  the  two  parties  faced 
one  another.  Tom  moved  to  the  front.  "  I  am  the 
Earl  of   Kent,"  he  said.       "To  save  you  from  com- 


326  SUNDOWN. 

mitting  sacrilege,  we  are  willing  to  surrender — upon 
terms." 

The  bailiff  was  neither  young  nor  old :  his  face 
by  daylight  looked  harder  than  ever. 

"There  are  no  terms  for  rebels,"  he  replied. 

"I  appeal  to  the  king,  your  lord." 

The  bailiff  looked  at  the  three  leaders  in  turn : 
his  eyes  rested  deliberately  on  Lord  Lumley. 

"I  bid  you  to  Blockham  Feast,"  he  answered. 

Tom  closed  the  door.  "  Now  what  do  you  say  ?  " 
he  asked  Salisbury. 

"Surrender,"  replied  Salisbury,  —  "the  axe  is  a 
decent  end :  I  can't  die  like  a  rat  among  a  hundred 
dogs." 

"It  will  take  them  longer  too,"  urged  Lumley, 
"and  there  is  always  the  chance." 

Tom  drew  his  sword  and  opened  the  door  again; 
the  crowd  edged  back  as  if  expecting  a  charge. 

"  We  are  knights  and  peers  of  Parliament,"  he 
said;  "we  have  appealed  to  the  king,  and  we  are 
content  to  leave  the  rest  to  you.  But  we  have 
servants  here :  what  will  you  do  with  them  ? " 

"They  may  have  their  horses,"  replied  the 
bailiff,  "  and  an  hour's  law  on  the  road  you 
came  by." 

"At  once?"  asked  Tom. 

"No,"  answered  the  bailiff,  "afterwards." 

The  three  lords  came  forward  and  gave  up  their 
swords :  no  one  asked  for  those  of  the  squires.  The 
crowd  pressed  eagerly   round   the   whole  party,   but 


BLOCKHAM    FEAST.  327 

the  armed  men  soon  formed  a  ring  and  drove  them 
back.  Axes  were  brought,  and  a  confessor  sent  for 
from  the  abbey ;  the  battering  -  ram  was  laid  on 
three  upturned  stools  to  make  a  block. 

"John,"  said  his  lord,  "you  must  find  my  uncle, 
wherever  he  is." 

John  was  surprised :  he  dared  not  name  his 
mistress,  but  the  look  on  his  face  betrayed  his 
thought. 

"My  wife,"  said  Tom,  "is  safe  by  now:  say  no 
more  of  that.  My  uncle  is  the  king's  only  chance. 
I  don't  know  what  he  has  done  since  he  left  us; 
but  if  he  has  made  terms  with  Henry,  so  much 
the  better  for  Richard." 

"I  will  go  to  him  at  once,"  said  John.  His  voice 
seemed  no  longer  part  of  him. 

A  monk  was  brought  in  :  Kent  and  Lumley 
made  their  confession,  but  Salisbury  refused,  and 
knelt  at  a  little  distance  by  himself. 

When  they  had  all  three  risen,  Tom  held  out 
his  hand  to  the  other  two. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  "I  go  first."  He  came  over 
to  John  once  more  and  kissed  him.  "Remember," 
he  said,  "  that  we  are  murdered,  not  attainted : 
Edmund  should  have  my  earldom." 

He  kissed  him  again  and  stepped  resolutely  to 
the  block. 

John  fell  on  his  knees  and  covered  his  face.  At 
last  down  to  the  horrible  abyss  of  frozen  darkness 
where    he    crouched    there    came    a   faint    sound    of 


328  SUNDOWN. 

a  crowd  shouting.       He  rose  to  his  feet  and  pushed 
blindly  towards  the  inn. 

"My  horse,    my  horse,"    he  heard    his    own   voice 
reiterating.     No  one  replied  or  hindered  him. 


LXL 

All  that  day  John  rode  in  a  stupor  of  grief,  care- 
less of  danger,  thoughtless  of  direction,  unobservant 
of  his  horse's  growing  lameness,  scarcely  speaking 
a  word  to  his  companions.  At  starting  next  morn- 
ing they  reminded  him  that  his  lord's  badge  could 
serve  him  no  longer  for  credit  or  protection : 
he  carried  it  concealed  about  him  till  evening, 
and  then  sank  it  in  the  river  beneath  Abingdon 
Bridge. 

The  other  squires  had  parted  from  him  before 
this :  to  them  he  seemed  to  be  a  madman,  riding 
directly  to  certain  destruction.  They  left  him  to 
go  his  own  way,  and  turning  north  themselves,  fell 
straight  into  the  hands  of  the  pursuing  army, 
which,  as  it  happened,  had  been  misdirected  at 
Wallingford,  and  was  now  lying  round  Oxford. 

King  Henry  was  gracious  over  the  news  from 
Cirencester,  but  he  declined  to  ratify  the  terms  of 
surrender :  the  squires,  after  a  short  imprisonment, 
he   sent  to   the   scaffold   with    Sir  Thomas   Blount, 


THE    PATH   TO    FLAUNDEN.  329 

Sir  Barnard  Broca8,  and  a  score  of  other  knights 
and  gentlemen. 

John  meanwhile  stayed  undisturbed  at  Abingdon, 
where  no  one  asked  him  any  questions.  He  was 
just  a  listless,  pleasant-spoken  gentleman,  who  band- 
aged his  horse's  legs  himself,  and  took  no  interest 
in  public  affairs  however  near  or  thrilling.  In  his 
own  thought  he  was  a  man  with  an  errand,  and 
life  was  bounded  absolutely  by  his  journey;  but  it 
was  the  journey  of  a  ghost,  a  nameless  and  half- 
visible  traveller  passing  through  a  country  where 
he  had  once  been  some  one,  but  was  now  no  longer 
remembered  even  by  his  enemies.  About  such  a 
journey  there  could  be  no  haste  or  impatience,  for 
he  had  lost  all  count  of  time. 

It  was  some  days  later  that  the  sense  of  time 
came  back  to  him.  He  had  left  Henley  in  the 
early  morning  on  his  way  to  Marlow,  and  was 
riding  slowly  beyond  Hurley  Bottom  when  he  came 
to  the  well-remembered  fork  where  the  road  breaks 
off  to  Maidenhead  Thicket.  He  stood  a  long  time 
looking  down  it,  as  if  even  from  there  he  could 
see  the  great  bridge  and  his  lord  still  fighting  with 
the  sunlight  on  his  helmet.  Then  from  Hurley  the 
north  wind  suddenly  brought  a  chiming  of  bells, 
and  he  knew  that  this  was  another  Sunday  than 
that  Sunday  of  the  bridge.  For  the  first  time, 
as  he  turned  away,  his  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

Four  days  later  he  was  at  Amersham  ;  and  he 
might   have   come    to    Berkhamstead    on    the    next 


330  SUNDOWN. 

morning,  but  by  this  time  cunning  also  had  re- 
turned to  him.  He  would  make  for  Langley  first, 
and  approach  as  though  from  London ;  he  might 
hear,  too,  if  Huntingdon  had  passed  that  way,  as 
was  most  likely. 

It  was  a  bright  still  morning ;  the  Chess  glittered 
in  the  January  sun  as  he  crossed  it  below  Latimer : 
he  went  slowly  up  the  hill,  and  looked  for  the 
bridle-path  to  Flaunden.  There  it  lay,  remote  and 
clear,  vanishing  at  the  crest  of  the  slope  into  a 
mysterious  little  wood :  the  scene  was  all  small  and 
brilliant  as  the  background  of  a  picture.  And  now, 
while  he  stood  looking  at  it,  the  figure  of  a  man 
on  horseback  came  out  of  the  wood  and  moved 
downwards  upon  the  path :  he,  too,  was  strangely 
clear,  man  and  horse,  and  as  he  drew  slowly  nearer, 
John  was  certain  that  he  knew  him.  Then  his 
heart  quickened,  for  he  saw  that  chance  had  brought 
back  to  him  a  fragment  of  the  past ;  no  friend,  but 
one  who  had  been  formerly  a  knight  of  Huntingdon's 
household,  and  had  ridden  away  with  him  the  night 
before  the  battle. 

"  Shelley  !  "  "  Marland  !  " — even  on  the  open  hill- 
side they  spoke  the  names  with  cautious  intensity. 

"  Have  you  heard  ?  "  asked  John. 

"By  God,  yes,"  answered  Shelley,  with  the  gusto 
of  a  sensation-monger.  "You  did  pick  a  hard  bit 
to  fall  on !     Not  that  we  did  any  better !  " 

"What ?"  faltered  John;  "I  have  a  message 

for  Huntingdon." 


THE    PATH   TO   FLAUNDEN.  331 

"Then  it's  'hunting  done '  for  you,'  said  Shelley, 
still  more  cheerfully.  He  looked  about  him  at  the 
empty  landscape.  "  We're  safe  enough  here.  I'll  tell 
you  how  it  happened :  it  was  his  fault,  not  mine. 
We  were  making  a  bolt  for  France :  we  got  into 
Essex  pretty  easily,  but  there  was  some  delay  about 
a  boat.  We  lay  in  a  mill  at  Pitwell,  as  snug  as 
possible,  only  Huntingdon  would  have  wine.  The 
vintner  smelt  a  rat,  and  had  the  miller  followed : 
we  were  collared  as  we  sat  at  supper  and  hurried 
off  to  Chelmsford.  Next  day  they  took  us — where 
d'you  think  ?  —  to  Pleshey :  a  regular  hornet's  nest 
for  poor  old  Huntingdon.  There  was  the  Duchess 
of  Gloucester  with  the  Staffords  and  young  Arundel 
and  half  a  dozen  more  to  back  her.  She  came  out 
on  to  the  steps,  and  Huntingdon  went  on  his  knees 
to  her,  but  all  she  said  was :  '  We  never  know,  my 
lord,  do  we  ? '  and  by  God,  sir,  she  said  it  as  if  she 
had  something  to  hate  him  for.  They  took  him 
away  and  shortened  him  in  a  field  outside." 

The  man's  every  word  was  disgusting  to  John : 
he  himself  had  never  had  any  affection  for  Hunt- 
ingdon, but  this  coarse  picture  of  his  miserable  end 
was  so  heartlessly  drawn,  and  seemed  so  horrible  a 
travesty  of  his  own  lord's  death,  that  it  soiled  for 
a  moment  the  dignity  of  that  poignant  farewell. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"To  the  king,"  replied  Sir  John.  "I  told  young 
Arundel  I  could  put  him  in  the  way  of  finding  his 
properly  that  Huntingdon  had  taken :    so  they  gave 


332  SUNDOWN. 

me  a  safe- conduct  and  letters  commendatory.  I 
think  I'm  all  right."  He  slapped  his  saddlebag, 
and  mounted.  "Where  are  you  going  yourself?" 
he  asked  carelessly.  "Oh,  never  mind,  if  you'd 
rather  not  tell  me.     Well,  good  luck ! "  and  he  rode 

away. 

John  knew  Henry  better :  the  New  June  was  for- 
feit, root  and  branch,  and  Shelley,  the  last  flower 
of  it,  had  but  a  few  days  more  to  bloom.  The 
memory  of  it  all  was  suddenly  like  rotten  weeds 
before  him:  black  to  his  eyes  and  sickening  to  his 
nostrils.  Had  he  indeed  been  part  of  this?  How 
often  Nicholas  Love  had  told  him  so. 

Ten  days  later  he  dismounted  before  the  guest- 
house of  Mouni  Grace. 


PART    VI. 
LIGHT    IN    THE    WEST 


LXII. 

Time  is  no  comforter :  he  oan  but  build  a  culvert 
over  the  stream.  Below  it,  for  him  who  stands  to 
listen,  the  full  waters  of  memory  are  still  rolling; 
but  above  it  the  traffic  of  the  world  can  now  run 
secure  and  uninterrupted.  By  the  aid  of  Time, 
therefore,  one  man  will  achieve  forgetfulness,  and 
call  it  comfort ;  another  will  learn  only  that  his 
life  must  be  henceforth  divided — part  shared  cheer- 
fully with  all,  part  deeply  hidden,  —  in  the  brief 
passage  from  what  has  been  to  what  shall  be. 

From  forgetfulness  John  had  nothing  to  hope, 
and  the  other  lesson  he  had  not  yet  mastered.  He 
sat  in  the  Common  Hall  of  Mount  Grace,  before  a 
new-lit  fire  with  no  warmth  in  it — a  face  and  figure 
so  sorrowful  in  every  line  that  the  merest  stranger 
would  have  known  him  at  once  for  a  man  who  had 
lost  his  way  in  life.  He  had  come  blindly,  almost 
unconsciously,  along  a  road  he  knew,  to  the  only 
corner  where  he  could  be  sure  of  finding  a  friend 
and  a  hiding  -  place ;  but  beyond  the  moment  of 
entering  all  was  formless  to  his  eyes.  He  knew 
little  of   the  Carthusian   rule,  nothing  of  the  exist- 


33Ci  LIGHT   IN   THE   WEST. 

ence  to  which  Nicholas  had  returned,  less  than 
nothing  of  his  own  possible  place  in  it.  And  now 
he  was  here,  he  sat  frozen  and  inert,  without  purpose 
and  almost  without  thought.  A  slow  step  approached, 
but  failed  to  rouse  him  :  it  was  unfamiliar  even  to 
his  animal  sense.  At  last  he  became  aware  of  a 
white  figure  standing  by  him,  and  kind  bright  eyes 
looking  down  on  him  out  of  a  small,  round,  withered 
face. 

"Peace  be  with  you,"  said  the  monk.  "I  am 
Father  Edmund,  the  guest  -  master  of  this  House. 
Will  you  be  staying  long  with  us  ? " 

"  I  hope  so, — I  don't  know,"  replied  John.  "  Can  I 
see  Father  Nicholas  ?  " 

"  He  is  Prior  now,"  said  the  old  man,  gently 
garrulous.  "  He  succeeded  me  this  year.  But  he 
will  be  in  his  cell  now  saying  his  office." 

"  Oh,  I  can  wait,"  said  John.     "  How  long  ?  " 

"  Well,  dinner  comes  next." 

"Perhaps  I  might  be  allowed  to  sit  by  him  for 
dinner,"  John  suggested. 

"We  all  dine  alone,  except  on  Sundays  and 
Chapter  feasts." 

"What  do  you  do  after  dinner?" 

"The  reverend  Prior  has  to  see  the  Coadjuteur  and 
the  other  officials." 

John  was  silent. 

"Then  at  noon  there  is  the  Third  Ave  Maria; 
after  that " 

"  Yes— after  that  ?  " 


MOUNT   GRACE.  337 

"  We  are  free  till  Vespers  for  our  own  work. 
The  reverend  Prior  is  very  busy  :  he  is  writing  a 
book." 

"  I  will  venture  to  break  in  upon  his  book,"  said 
John. 

Father  Edmund  shook  his  head.  "No  one  from 
outside  is  allowed  to  enter  the  Great  Cloister." 

Grief  had  made  John  patient,  but  he  frowned  at 
this. 

"Is  there  not  a  moment  of  the  day,"  he  asked, 
"at  which  your  reverend  Prior  can  speak  to  an  old 
friend?" 

The  monk  looked  kinder  still,  but  continued  to 
enjoy  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 

"After  Vespers,"  he  replied,  "there  is  supper,  in 
our  cells  again,  and  then  the  Fourth  Ave  Maria, 
and  after  that  the  last  office,  and  bed.  It  is  a  busy 
day ;  and  then  there  is  the  night  office  too." 

"Will  you  be  good  enough,"  said  John,  "  to  tell  the 
reverend  Prior  that  John  Marland  is  here,  and  let 
him  make  his  own  arrangements  for  seeing  me." 

"I  will  ask  Father  Robert,  the  reverend  Coad- 
juteur,  to  do  so,  if  you  wish."  The  tone  was  one  of 
pleading,  almost  of  remonstrance. 

"I  am  afraid  I  do  wish,"  said  John  a  little  stiffly. 

Father  Edmund  shook  his  head  with  an  indulgent 
smile. 

"  Very  well,  very  well ;  but  if  every  one  thought 
to  force  a  way  in  here " 

John  almost  laughed.     "  You  need  not  be  afraid," 


338  LIGHT   IN   THE    WEST. 

he  said.     "  I  have  found  it  easier  to  take  the  king's 
castle  of  Windsor." 

"I  know  nothing  of  castles  or  of  kings,"  replied 
the  monk,  "but  this  is  the  Blessed  Solitude  of  St 
Bruno  ; "  and  with  that  he  glided  gently  from  the 
room. 


LXIII. 

Nicholas  entered  almost  immediately :  at  the  sight 
of  him  John's  heart  seemed  to  break  its  cold  iron 
bands  and  beat  again  with  the  pulse  of  life.  But 
of  the  two  friends,  as  they  clasped  hands  and  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  one  alone  was  agitated:  the 
monk's  face  showed  no  sign  of  any  feelings  but 
affection  and  surprise. 

John  saw  this,  but  was  silent :  he  brought  news — 
such  news  as  he  had  never  brought  to  any  hearer 
before ;  but  something  within  him  revolted  against 
the  crude  ready  phrases  of  everyday,  and  he  could 
think  of  none  better. 

"  You  are  welcome,  John,  but  you  are  unexpected." 
The  words  were  a  question,  and  John  was  again  con- 
scious of  the  perfect  tranquillity  of  the  questioner : 
there  was  more  behind  it  than  mere  ignorance.  As 
for  himself,  dumbness  still  held  him :  he  was  looking 
at  the  truth,  in  his  effort  to  relate  it,  more  directly 


FROM   TIME   TO   ETERNITY.  339 

than  he  had  yet  dared  to  do,  and  it  smote  him  cruelly 
in  the  face. 

"I  am  alone,"  he  said. 

If  any  one  could  have  mistaken  the  significance  of 
the  words,  it  was  not  Nicholas  Love. 

"Here  we  are  all  alone,"  he  replied. 

Not  the  reply  itself,  but  the  calm  unstrained  con- 
fidence of  the  speaker's  tone  sounded  in  John's  ears 
like  a  message  of  comfort ;  but  it  seemed  to  come 
from  far  off,  like  a  shout  of  encouragement  from  a 
distant  battlement,  a  city  of  refuge  beyond  his  power 
to  reach. 

"  Nicholas,"  he  said,  "  Tom  has  gone." 

His  lips  seemed  barely  to  move,  but  he  heard  the 
words  echoing  as  in  a  vault,  loud  and  terrible.  He 
stared  at  Nicholas,  and  thought  he  had  missed  his 
mark ;  the  monk's  face  was  still  full  of  comfort,  still 
had  the  old  light  in  it — that  strange  mingling  of 
irony  and  tenderness. 

"Gone?"  he  replied.  "You  make  me  anxious." 
The  dry  humour  of  the  voice,  characteristic  and 
familiar  as  it  was,  completed  John's  deception. 

"Ah!"  he  cried,  "if  anxiety  were  all!  It  is  too 
late  to  be  anxious — he  is  gone,  I  tell  you,  gone ;  I  was 
there,  I  saw  the  end." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Nicholas  with  gentle  certainty 
of  touch.  "  I  did  not  mistake  you.  But  I  am  still 
anxious — about  the  manner  of  his  going." 

Half  the  sadness  fell  from  John's  face :  he  looked 
up. 


340  LIGHT   EN   THE   WEST. 

"  You  need  not  have  been  troubled  about  that,"  he 
answered. 

"  But  I  was,"  said  the  monk. 

John  looked  prouder  still :  his  head  rose  like  a 
flower  after  heavy  rain,  but  he  found  nothing  to  say. 

"You  were  trying  to  make  a  prince  of  him," 
Nicholas  continued.  "It  is  a  perilous  process;  I 
feared  lest  time  might  have  failed  you." 

"It  needed  little  time  or  trying,"  replied  John, 
"he  was  born  noble." 

"Yes,"  said  the  monk,  "of  the  house  of  Holland: 
with  God  all  things  are  possible." 

John  smiled,  a  faint  and  reluotant  smile. 

"  My  dear  Nicholas  !  But  you  may  well  say  '  all 
things,'  you  have  no  idea  of  what  he  really  was — 
you  have  been  away  so  long.  He  was  the  king's 
right  hand,  the  leader  of  them  all;  he  fought  the 
finest  battle  you  ever  saw,  and  then  made  a  march 
half  across  England — he  saved  the  whole  army." 

"  But  not  himself,"  said  Nicholas. 

John  made  a  quick  gesture  of  impatience.  "It 
was  a  chance — the  merest  ohance  ! " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  monk.  "  Chance  ! — you  are  out 
of  my  depth  there." 

"They  trapped  us— just  seven  of  us,  away  from  the 
rest." 

"Then   he   died  fighting?"   asked   Nicholas   with 

real  anxiety. 

"There  was  no  fighting,"  answered  John  regret- 
fully.      "They   chose   the   axe:    Salisbury    was    too 


FROM   TIME   TO   ETERNITY.  341 

lordly  to  end  with  a  scuffle.  I  was  sorry  myself, 
and  I  know  Tom  was  too." 

"You  are  too  modest,"  said  the  other  warmly. 
"You  have  done  well,  John,  very  well,  and  I  con- 
gratulate you." 

"Nicholas!" 

"But  think  a  moment,"  replied  the  monk.  "Don't 
look  at  things  upside  down.  What  have  you  been 
working  and  I  been  praying  for,  these  many  years  ? 
And  now  you  tell  me  that  in  spite  of  all  the  dangers 
and  difficulties,  this  boy  has  lived  with  honour  and 
died  in  a  good  cause,  forgiving  his  enemies  and  at 
peace  with  God.     Is  that  not  true?" 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "it  is  true;  but  he  is  dead  all 
the  same — you  oan't  alter  that." 

"Perhaps  not,"  Nicholas  replied;  "but  you  have 
gone  far  towards  altering  it  yourself." 

"  I  ?  "  asked  John.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"You  have  oome  here." 

"You  are  wrong,"  cried  John  bitterly.  "I  have 
changed  nothing,  I  have  only  prolonged  the  separa- 
tion. I  thought  I  was  escaping :  I  will  go  back — 
they  will  make  short  work  of  my  misery  down 
there." 

"Down  there  is  one  way,"  said  the  monk.  "But 
I  can  show  you  a  nearer  one.     Come  with  me." 

He  took  John  by  the  arm  and  led  him  out.  They 
passed  through  a  postern  door  into  the  court ;  it  had 
been  the  garden  of  the  old  house  and  was  still  laid 
down  in  smooth  turf,  but  the  high  bank  of  wood  behind 


342  LIGHT  IN  THE    WEST 

was  bare  and  hollow  as  John  had  never  seen  it,  and 
beneath  the  wood,  to  the  east  of  the  house,  now  lay 
a  range  of  buildings,  dividing  the  plateau  like  a 
massive  dam,  and  completely  cutting  off  the  northern 
half  of  it  from  view. 

"There  are  changes  here,"  said  Nicholas,  reading 
his  companion's  thought,  "  but  this  is  still  the  place 
you  knew :  you  must  come  farther  yet." 

They  turned  to  the  left  and  passed  the  west  front 
of  the  church :  the  wall  of  the  Great  Cloister  was 
before  them,  a  bulk  of  solid  stone,  broken  only  by  a 
heavy  door  of  oak  studded  with  iron.  Even  to  the 
great  strength  of  Nicholas  the  door  yielded  with 
ponderous  slowness,  and  then,  of  its  own  weight, 
swung  to  a^ain  with  a  deep  final  clash.  They  stood 
within  the  Solitude  of  St  Bruno. 

"My  brother,"  said  the  monk,  "you  have  come 
from  Time  into  Eternity :  does  not  that  alter  the 
world  for  you? — look  again." 

John  was  silent :  before  him  in  the  pale  winter 
sunlight  he  saw  a  wide  space  of  green  lawn,  stretch- 
ing empty  and  level  around  a  conduit  of  carved  gray 
atone.  On  every  side  it  was  bounded  by  the  cloister 
wall,  above  which  rose  at  regular  intervals  the  rigid 
outlines  of  the  Carthusian  cells. 

"I  see,"  he  replied  at  last.  "It  is  very  different, 
but  it  is  still  a  place  where  men  live." 

"And  where  they  die,"  said  Nicholas  ;  "but  in  the 
life  of  Time,  Death  is  the  end  ;  in  the  life  of  Eternity, 
it  is  only  an  incident." 


FKOM  TIME   TO   ETEBNITT.  343 

John's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  closed  and  silent  door 
of  a  cell  opposite,  on  the  far  side  of  the  cloister. 

"I  am  trying  to  understand,"  he  replied ;  "  but  it  is 
so  shadowy.  Eternity  is  nothing  to  me  if  I  cannot 
find  again  what  I  have  lost.    You  don't  offer  me  that?" 

"  You  have  lost  much,"  the  monk  answered,  "  but 
what  you  have  lost  was  only  a  part :  I  offer  you  the 
whole.  Your  pain  is  temporary,  but  it  will  be  re- 
peated many  times :  my  remedy  is  final.  Drink  of 
the  water  which  I  show  you,  and  you  shall  never 
thirst  again." 

John  did  not  move.  "I  trust  you,  Nicholas,"  he 
said,  "but  I  am  not  sure  that  that  is  what  I  want. 
Even  now  it  seems  to  me  that  I  would  rather  thirst 
and  go  unsatisfied,  than  cease  to  care  altogether." 

"You  will  not  cease  to  care,"  replied  the  monk. 
"  You  will  cease  to  care  about  this  or  that ;  but  for 
the  one  great  good,  in  which  all  things  are  summed 
up  and  perfected,  you  will  care  as  you  have  never 
cared  before — supremely,  without  possibility  of  sor- 
row or  fear." 

There  was  no  irony  in  his  voice  now,  of  himself  at 
any  rate  he  was  speaking  the  plainest  truth.  John 
turned  and  looked  at  him  with  the  patient  weakness 
of  a  sick  man — a  look  with  no  active  belief  in  it,  but 
with  no  resistance. 

"  You  are  very  good,  Nicholas,"  he  said,  "  but 
surely  you  forget — I  am  not  one  of  you.  I  have  no 
right  to  live  here. " 

"True,  but  you  have  no  right  to  live  anywhere  else." 


344  LIGHT   IN   THE    WEST. 

The  cold  shock  of  material  fact  roused  John  from 
his  languor ;  this,  at  least,  was  a  motive  upon  which 
he  could  act. 

"What  a  fool  I  am,"  he  exclaimed,  "to  stand 
arguing  when  there  is  no  ohoice  —  forgive  me, 
Nicholas." 

The  monk  looked  at  him  more  tenderly  than  ever, 
and  more  ironically ;  here  was  a  man  who  had  hesi- 
tated over  the  life  eternal,  but  who  grasped  at  the 
life  temporal  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"You  will  stay  then — since  there  is  no  choice?  " 

"I  will  stay,  most  gratefully,"  John  replied; 
"but  I  don't  know  how  you  will  get  over  all  the 
difficulties." 

"There  will  be  no  difficulties,"  said  the  Prior. 
"The  cause  of  our  lord  Richard  is  the  cause  of  God." 


LXIV. 

Nicholas  was  right :  there  were  no  difficulties :  the 
Fathers  of  Mount  Grace  at  this  time  numbered  only 
eight,  and  all  of  them  were  devoted  to  their  founder 
and  their  lawful  king.  A  formal  Chapter  was  held : 
but  whatever  were  the  questions  submitted  to  it  by 
the  Prior,  they  were  decided  unanimously  and  with- 
out debate — upon  what  principles  John  himself  never 
asked  or  heard.      He  was  an   outlaw  and  an  exile 


AN   IMPERFECT   VOCATION.  345 

from  his  own  world :  so  long  as  the  monastery- 
granted  him  the  asylum  which  he  could  find  nowhere 
else,  it  was  nothing  to  him  whether  he  figured  on  its 
books  as  guest,  novice,  or  conversus ;  the  dress  and 
daily  routine  prescribed  for  him  were  a  necessary 
disguise,  his  mind — he  told  himself — was  his  own, 
the  mind  of  a  free  man. 

The  Prior  made  no  such  error :  he  knew  that  where 
esoape  was  impossible  freedom  could  be  but  nominal, 
and  even  the  independence  of  the  mind  was  not  likely 
to  stand  unimpaired  by  the  practice  of  a  rule  so  care- 
fully planned  as  that  of  St  Bruno,  so  potent  to  win 
over  and  dominate  the  human  will.  He  knew  then 
that  the  position  he  was  creating  was  from  the 
beginning  not  what  John  understood  it  to  be.  So 
much  was  inevitable :  but  he  also  foresaw  that  it 
would  in  the  course  of  time  become  far  more  widely 
different  from  anything  that  John  at  present  im- 
agined or  desired.  If  the  clear  eyes  of  his  native 
honesty  did  not  blink  at  the  prospect,  it  was  because 
he  evidently  believed  that  he  was  only  passing  off 
gold  for  brass  upon  a  friend  too  short-sighted  and 
too  much  troubled  to  know  where  his  own  advan- 
tage lay. 

With  the  best  of  intentions,  then,  everything  was 
made  as  easy  as  possible  for  John,  and  he  was  enabled 
to  slip  into  his  new  groove  without  a  shock,  without 
even  a  momentary  jar.  The  reverend  Coadjuteur 
and  novice-master,  Father  Robert,  to  whose  especial 
care  he  was  committed,  showed  something  like  genius 


346  LIGHT   IN  THE    WEST. 

in  the  tact  with  which  he  dovetailed  a  past  and  a 
present  undeniably  discontinuous.  There  was  so  much 
kindly  simplicity  and  so  little  appearance  of  pre- 
meditation about  his  method  that  it  would  be  per- 
haps unjust  to  speak  of  it  as  a  method  at  all :  but 
it  might  fairly  be  said  that  from  an  observation  of 
this  good  old  monk's  conduct  it  would  be  possible  to 
sketch  the  outline  of  a  thoroughly  scientific  treatment 
for  use  in  cases  of  imperfect  vocation. 

Long  afterwards  this  outline  became  faintly  visible 
to  John  himself.  He  remembered  how,  among  the 
duties  and  restrictions  now  laid  upon  him,  the  more 
novel  were  made  of  least  account,  while  prominence 
was  given — when  occasion  arose,  but  not  otherwise — 
to  those  which  were  most  likely  to  recall  his  old- 
accustomed  service.  The  only  real  contrast — it  was 
continually  suggested  to  him  —  lay  between  the 
cruelty  and  disloyalty  of  the  worldlings  whose  con- 
tact he  had  fled,  and  the  selfless  devotion  of  the  com- 
munity that  was  now  his  refuge  :  his  soul  was  bidden 
to  go  daily  about  the  walls  of  the  eternal  city,  to 
mark  well  her  foundations,  her  sweet  order,  her 
towers  of  lonely  thought,  and  exhorted  daily  to  bear 
a  part  in  setting  up  with  greater  stateliness  the 
impregnable  bulwarks  of  her  peace.  Not  only  those 
ideas,  but  the  very  words  themselves  had  their  effect 
upon  him :  he  gained  a  loftier  view  of  his  downfall 
and  his  deliverance,  and  found  comfort  in  that  which 
a  year  ago  he  would  have  scorned  as  an  empty  incan- 
tation. 


AN    IMPERFECT   VOCATION.  347 

Silent  though  he  was,  and  evidently  much  occupied 
with  thoughts  which  none  could  guess  at,  his  docility 
and  progress  in  the  rudiments  of  religion  were  plainly 
visible  to  his  new  friends,  and  rapidly  endeared  him 
to  them.  Being  themselves  of  gentle  birth,  they 
were  able  both  to  feel  and  to  express  a  sympathy 
which  was  not  only  very  welcome,  but  was  actually 
more  congenial  to  him  than  the  loud  friendliness  of 
many  of  his  fellows  in  the  New  June.  He  found,  too, 
in  the  silence  and  isolation  which  were  the  rule  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  week,  a  relief  from  the  strain 
of  ordinary  social  life,  where  each  of  the  casual  meet- 
ings of  every  day  goes  to  make  up  an  expenditure 
of  force  in  which  personality  seems  at  times  to  be 
running  completely  to  waste. 

Before  long  the  greater  tranquillity  of  his  mind 
began  to  be  reflected  in  his  face.  Father  Robert, 
who  with  all  his  experience  was  by  temperament  an 
enthusiast,  could  not  but  believe  in  the  imminence  of 
a  real  conversion  :  after  a  fortnight  he  was  confident 
of  it,  at  the  end  of  a  month  he  was  not  sure  that  it 
had  not  already  taken  place.  The  Prior  was  wiser : 
he  knew  John  better,  and  realised  that  what  time 
has  built,  only  long  time  can  destroy  and  build  afresh  ; 
he  combated  his  Coadjuteur's  optimism  with  a  full 
quiver  of  his  sharpest  humour,  and  forbade  any  pre- 
mature attempt  to  inquire  into  John's  view  of  his 
own  position.  But  he  was  himself  unconsciously 
moved  to  hope :  he  began  to  see  in  his  old  friend 
something  more  than  a  refugee  j   beneath  the  hard 


348  LIGHT   IN  THE   WEST. 

dry  surface  of  his  irony  the  desire  of  all  these  years 
was  at  last  putting  forth  tender  and  sanguine  shoots. 
He  was  always  the  happier  for  John's  presence  in 
church :  and  there  were  moments  when  a  vision  filled 
his  eyes  and  his  voice  failed  him.  "He  asked  life 
of  thee,"  chanted  the  rest,  "  and  thou  gavest  him  a 
long  life,  even  for  ever  and  ever." 


LXV. 

John  was  indeed  making  progress,  if  not  exactly  in 
the  direction  supposed  by  his  friends.  Within  a 
month  he  had  recovered  his  nerve,  both  physical  and 
moral :  his  mind  rose  as  from  a  bed  of  sickness  and 
began  to  look  once  more  with  clear  sight  upon  the 
road  before  and  after.  One  immediate  discovery  was 
the  realisation  of  the  full  meaning  of  the  Carthusian 
rule.  After  the  kindlv  ministrations  of  the  first  few 
days  he  was  left  more  and  more  completely  to  him- 
self: he  found  in  his  cell  a  remoteness  he  had  not 
conceived  as  possible — a  solitude  within  a  solitude. 
The  great  principle  of  the  Charterhouse  is  this 
twofold  loneliness — isolation  of  the  community  from 
the  world,  isolation  of  each  member  from  the  others. 
Like  a  shower  of  drops  falling  through  a  clear  wind- 
less void  towards  the  pool  of  eternity,  these  souls 
shall  pursue  their  flight  in  unison,  but  each  untouohed 


THE    SOLITUDE    OF   ST   BRUNO.  349 

and  unhindered  by  the  rest :  to  every  one  of  them  the 
universe  shall  be  a  shadow,  his  nearest  fellow  a  mys- 
tery, and  himself  no  longer  a  self,  but  a  being  already 
surrendered  to  be  merged  in  the  Divine. 

First,  then,  the  Order  must  be  cut  off  from  men. 
Father    Edmund,    when    he  said    that    no   one  from 
outside  was   allowed  to   enter   the   inner   enclosure, 
spoke  only  half  the  truth.     He  might  have  added 
that  no  one  who  had  once  entered  was  ever  allowed 
to  pass  outside  again.     For  the  Carthusian,  so  long 
as  he  still  draws  the  breath  of  mortality,  the  wall 
of  the  Great  Cloister  is  the  boundary  of  the  material 
world :    there   lies   his   every  occupation,  —  his   cell, 
church,  chapter-house,  frater,  and  library ;  and  even 
when  on  one  day  in  the  week  he  walks  for  an  hour 
or  two  beyond  the  precincts,  he  is  still  surrounded 
by  the  whole  community,  and   still,  like  an  ambas- 
sador abroad,  carries  his  native  laws  and  limitations 
with   him.      He   sees   no   stranger's    face,   hears   no 
stranger's  voice :   even  in  church  the  guests  of  the 
monastery  must  sit  silently  in  a  place  where  they 
are  invisible   to  him.      Finally,  he  has   no  concern 
with  the  welfare  of  those  outside:   he  is  not,  even 
for  guidance,   an  element  in  their  social  life.     The 
Carthusian  must   not  preach,  like  a  Franciscan  or 
Dominican,    or   teach,    like    a    Benedictine:    though 
he  cultivate  his  own  garden  with  skill,  he  may  not 
go   afield   and    farm   like   a   Cistercian.      Even   his 
religious  offices  are   for  the  community  only:    out- 
side   the    Great    Cloister    and    its   churoh    he   may 


350  LIGHT   IN  THE   WEST. 

neither  hear  a  confession,  nor  administer  the  last 
sacraments  to  a  dying  neighbour,  nor  bury  him 
when  dead,  unless  it  is  beyond  possibility  for  an- 
other priest  to  be  found.  In  such  a  ease  the  rule 
is  not  only  relaxed  but  reversed ;  the  service  re- 
quired must  be  rendered  at  all  costs ;  and  it  was 
no  doubt  in  reliance  upon  the  letter  of  this  pro- 
vision that  Nicholas  Love  had  been  requisitioned 
for  the  education  of  the  king's  young  nephews. 
His  long  and  reluctant  absence  served  the  purpose 
of  the  Order:  his  knowledge  of  human  nature  was 
beyond  that  of  his  fellows,  and  he  enforced  the 
rule  all  the  more  strictly  now  because  he  had 
himself  suffered  so  deeply  from  leaving  its  shelter 
for  a  time. 

John  saw  then  that  in  the  House  of  Mount  Grace 
he  had  reached  an  absolute  asylum :  he  was  no 
longer  in  the  same  world  as  the  enemies  who  hated 
him.  But  the  place  bore  a  grimmer  aspect  when 
he  realised  that  he  was  hardly  less  isolated  from 
the  men  among  whom  he  lived.  The  Carthusian 
is  eternally  alone.  He  may  not  speak  with  his 
fellow  in  private :  meeting  by  chance  in  the  cloister, 
each  must  draw  his  hood  over  his  face,  and  pass 
without  a  word  or  a  look.  Even  on  Sundays  and 
Chapter  feasts,  when  dinner  is  served  in  the  frater 
instead  of  in  the  cells,  no  talking  is  permitted: 
even  during  the  brief  hours  of  the  weekly  walk  or 
other  recreation,  when  conversation  is  enjoined,  it 
must  be  general  and  on  the  most  general  subjects. 


A  VOTCE   FROM   WITHOm.  351 

Kindliness  and  fellowship  there  may  be  upon  the 
surface:  but  the  life  of  the  individual  soul  must 
be  untroubled  and  uncomforted,  utterly  and  for 
ever  untouched  by  any  other  soul  of  man. 


LXVL 

FOR  any  one  brought  early  under  such  a  rule  it 
must  be,  John  began  to  think,  a  kind  of  living 
death,  an  entombment  of  all  that  makes  up  life  as 
he  had  hitherto  understood  and  valued  it.  Religious 
offices,  work,  recreation,  the  care  of  the  body  and 
the  cut -and -dried  intercourse  of  the  community — 
these,  in  the  perfection  of  the  system,  would  be  no 
more  than  the  half -conscious  acts  of  men  living  in 
a  phantasmal  world.  The  case  was  very  different 
for  one  who,  like  himself,  brought  with  him  into 
the  desert  a  whole  universe  of  his  own,  crowded 
with  clearly  seen  figures  and  ringing  with  unforget- 
table voices.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  he  too 
might  in  the  end  find  rest  in  this  consecrated  grave ; 
for  even  in  the  sleep  of  death  there  must  come  to 
him  dreams  that  no  requiem  could  effectually  charm 
away.  To  him,  as  to  his  companions,  his  surround- 
ings might  in  the  end  become  unreal ;  but  the  vivid 
life,  the  life  within,  would  always  be  for  him  the 
past    rather    than    the    future,    the    warm,    bright, 


352  LIGHT   IN  THE   WEST. 

terrible  life  which  he  had  left  rather  than  any  that 
hope  could  set  before  him. 

This  unworthine88,  this  predestined  failure  to  learn 
the  lesson  of  the  Order,  might  have  troubled  him : 
but  he  soon  perceived  that  even  to  his  superiors  the 
world  of  their  experience  was  not  in  practice  so 
wholly  abandoned  or  forgotten.  It  would  have 
needed  a  more  remote  Thebaid  than  the  Cleveland 
Hills  to  place  Nicholas  Love  beyond  all  touch  with 
the  years  which  he  had  onoe  shared  with  John 
Marland  and  his  young  lords.  John  remembered 
the  tenderness  of  his  welcome,  the  readiness  with 
which  his  own  long  story  had  been  received,  the 
interest,  none  the  less  keen  for  being  mainly  spirit- 
ual, which  Nicholas  had  betrayed  in  the  fate  of  the 
boy  whom  he  had  taught  and  loved.  Decidedly? 
though  he  was  dead  to  the  world,  the  world  was 
not  yet  dead  to  him — he,  too,  was  visited  in  his 
sleep  by  dreams. 

These  thoughts  were  further  confirmed  one  after- 
noon in  March,  when  John  was  summoned  to  wait 
on  the  Prior  in  the  hour  of  leisure  before  Vespers. 

He  found  Nicholas  at  work  in  his  cell :  before  him 
on  the  table  a  book  stood  open,  carefully  propped  in 
a  wooden  rest  which  appeared  to  have  been  made 
for  it.  To  guard  it  further  from  being  soiled  during 
the  long  process  of  translation,  the  volume  had  been 
completely  sewn  up  in  a  cover  of  brown  holland; 
but  John  recognised  it  at  a  glance  for  the  copy  of 
St  Bonaventura's  Meditations  which  Gian  Galeazzo 


A   VOTCE    FROM    WITHOUT.  353 

had  given  to  Nicholas  upon  a  memorable  day  at 
Pavia.  For  a  moment,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  its 
clear  Italian  characters,  the  narrow  walls  of  gray 
stone  vanished  and  he  saw  another  Charterhouse 
rising  under  a  southern  sky.  The  vision  passed, 
but  left  his  brain  in  a  strange  tumult ;  and  the 
Prior's  face,  when  he  turned  to  him,  confessed  an 
agitation  akin,  he  thought,  to  his  own. 

It  may  well  have  been  so ;  but  Nicholas  had  yet 
another  cause  to  trouble  his  thoughts. 

"  John,"  he  said  in  a  slow  restrained  voice,  "  you 
know  how  earnestly  I  have  desired  to  shelter  you 
from  all  outside  influences — from  associations  that 
could  trouble  your  solitary  blessedness.  I  have  tried 
to  keep  the  rule  of  our  Order  as  strictly  in  your  case 
as  in  my  own.  But  even  here  there  will  come  from 
time  to  time   ..." 

He  paused.  John  saw  that  there  was  news,  news 
from  outside,  and  he  felt  the  unknown  message 
knocking  loudly  upon  the  doors  of  his  heart. 

"  We  have  some  obligations  which  we  cannot  re- 
nounce. We  are  bound,  for  instance,  to  pray  for 
certain  benefactors,  and,  after  their  death,  for  their 
souls."  He  paused  again.  John  made  a  murmur 
of  assent.  "  I  am  in  doubt  at  this  moment  whether 
we  should  pray  for  the  earthly  wellbeing  of  our 
sovereign  lord,  King  Richard,  or  for  the  repose  of 
his  soul." 

John's  eyes  flashed.  "  Why  do  you  doubt  ?  "  he 
asked  abruptly. 


354  LIGHT   IN   THE   WEST. 

"  A  report  of  his  death  has  come.  It  is  said  that 
his  body  was  borne  through  the  streets  of  London 
by  order  of  his  cousin,  Henry  of  Lancaster.  The 
messenger  saw  the  procession,  but  he  seems  to  sus- 
pect a  trick  of  some  kind." 

"It  is  likely  enough,"  said  John  bitterly.  "We 
have  nothing  to  complain  of  there.  John  Holland 
spread  such  lies  broadcast  :  he  swore  to  the  people 
that  Richard  was  marching  with  a  hundred  thousand 
men,  and  he  dressed  the  Secretary  Maudelyn  up  to 
act  the  part." 

"Ah!"  said  Nicholas,  "but  by  this  time  John 
Holland  is  doing  what  he  can  to  atone  for  that. 
What  I  want  is  your  judgment  on  the  truth  of  the 
report ;  you  know  the  Duke  of  Lancaster's  character 
— or  do  you  think  the  king's  health ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  cried  John.  "  It  is  not  true,  it  oannot 
be  true." 

"  Think  well,"  said  the  Prior.  "  You  and  I  have 
heard  of  men  dying  even  more  unexpectedly,  by 
violence  and  treachery  not  less  horrible  than  this 
would  be." 

John  avoided  his  eyes.  "  I  know,"  he  answered 
in  a  lower  tone,  "  but  Henry  is  not  quite  like  that. 
He  would  forge  an  Indulgence  or  a  title  to  the 
crown,  but  not  murder  in  cold  blood.  He  is 
not " 

"  Not  man  enough,"  said  Nicholas  in  the  dry  quiet 
voice  that  John  knew.  "  Very  well,"  he  continued, 
"  that   will   do.      We    must  decide   one  way   or  the 


THE    PRTOR'S   WISDOM.  355 

other,  and  we  cannot  ascertain  the  truth ;  it  was 
your  feeling  that  I  wanted  to  know." 

"  I  feel  certain,"  replied  John.  "  I  cannot  tell  you 
why." 

The  Prior  drew  his  sheet  of  manuscript  towards 
him  and  took  up  his  pen.  "  Then  on  Sunday  we  shall 
still  pray  for  Kichard,  King  of  England." 

John  as  he  went  out  remembered  a  day  when  he 
had  vowed  to  say  that  prayer  every  night  of  his 
life.  The  recollection  continued  to  haunt  him  :  lying 
awake  an  hour  before  dawn  he  heard  or  thought  he 
heard,  in  the  woods  above  the  cloister,  a  voice  that 
was  like  the  voice  of  William  the  Siugtsr. 


LXVIL 

The  question  which  the  Prior  had  put  into  plain 
words  was  not  the  only  one  to  which  he  sought — 
and  obtained — an  answer.  He  had  in  fact  learned 
almost  nothing  about  Richard,  but  a  good  deal  about 
John:  evidently,  though  for  others  the  king  might 
be  buried  for  ever  beneath  the  donjon  of  Pontefract 
or  the  high  altar  of  Langley,  for  one  at  least  of  his 
servants  his  name  was  still  a  trumpet-call.  The 
Prior  sighed  as  he  thought  of  his  own  hopes;  so 
far  his  grafting  had  been  a  failure — the  tree  was 
throwing  a  wild  shoot  after  all.     He  must  sharpen 


356  LIGHT   IN   THE   WEST. 

the  edge  of  his  vigilance  and  cut  back  this  hardy 
growth  once  more :  patience  and  the  years  were  on 
his  side,  against  him  only  the  coarse  original  nature 
of  the  human  sap.  In  the  end  he  would  get  the 
heavenly  rose  he  desired. 

He  might  have  done  better  to  take  an  image  from 
the  March  fires  on  the  moor  above.  The  spark  had 
been  rekindled  in  John's  blood ;  it  was  but  smoulder- 
ing and  creeping — hardly  known  or  feared  yet,  even 
by  himself,  but  ready  for  the  first  breath  of  living 
air  to  blow  it  into  power.  Heather  once  fired  is  ill 
stuff  to  trample  out :  small  wonder  if  the  moving 
winds  of  three  years  were  at  last  too  much  for 
Nicholas  and  all  his  priests. 

Even  now  he  was  on  guard  :  but  the  first  stirring 
of  the  flame  was  close  at  hand,  and  escaped  his  pre- 
cautions :  it  was  indeed  his  own  most  anxious  fore- 
thought which  brought  about  the  mischief.  On  a 
cold,  clear  evening  near  the  end  of  March,  long  after 
Vespers  were  over  and  the  sunset  had  faded  up  the 
hill,  long  after  every  other  inmate  of  the  cloister  was 
asleep,  the  Prior  was  still  pacing  his  cell  in  great 
perplexity.  When  the  full  moon  had  risen  and  it 
wanted  but  half  an  hour  to  the  call  for  the  night 
office,  he  crossed  the  court  and  knocked  upon  the 
door  of  John's  cell. 

John  took  the  sound  for  the  excitator's  usual  sum- 
mons, and  wondered  why  the  man  was  so  long  in 
lighting  the  lamp.  When  the  knock  was  repeated 
he  sprang  from  his  pallet,  and  came  out  into  the 


THE    PRIOR'S   WISDOM.  357 

living-room.  It  was  lit  only  by  a  shaft  of  moon- 
light which  slanted  across  the  end  of  it :  from  the 
dusk  nearer  the  door  came  the  voice  of  Nioholas,  like 
a  voice  in  a  dream. 

"  John,  I  have  c^me  to  warn  you  of  a  danger. 
To-morrow  there  will  be  a  burial-service  here:  among 
those  who  will  attend  it — those  who  are  in  the  guest- 
house at  this  moment — there  will  be  some  who  were 
once  known  to  you." 

John  began  to  tremble  in  the  cold  night  air.  "  Who 
are  they  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  If  you  are  as  self-willed  as  you  used  to  be,"  said 
Nicholas,  "you  will  repeat  that  question  till  I  answer 
it :  you  will  stand  among  the  rest  of  us  to-morrow, 
you  will  see  and  be  seen,  you  will  be  in  pain,  perhaps 
in  mortal  peril." 

The  voice  was  measured  and  firm,  but  John  could 
interpret  the  faintest  inflections  of  it :  he  knew  that 
Nicholas  was  anxious  in  no  ordinary  degree. 

"If  I  were  not  so  self-willed,"  he  asked,  "what 
should  I  do  ?  " 

"  You  would  go  out  early  and  stay  away  all  day — 
up  on  the  moor — anywhere." 

John  reflected.  "  I  wonder,"  he  said  at  last,  "  why 
you  gave  me  the  choice — why  you  didn't  simply  send 
me  out  of  the  way  without  telling  me  ?  " 

"No  doubt,"  replied  Nicholas,  "that  would  have 
been  more  masterly." 

The  tone  rang  in  John's  heart :  a  hundred  chords 
of  memory  chimed   to  it.      But   on   the  other   side 


358  LIGHT   IN   THE   WEST. 

memories  were  calling  too :  and  sheer  curiosity 
pricked  him  unendurably.  Yet  again  he  drew  back 
as  he  realised  how  for  his  sake  Nicholas  had  laid 
aside  the  authority  of  the  Prior,  the  craft  of  the 
priest. 

"  I  told  you,"  said  the  dry  measured  voice  once 
more,  "  because  I  dared  not  do  otherwise :  I  feared 
you  would  find  me  out." 

John  knew  that  this  was  true,  and  the  candour  of 
it  conquered  him. 

"  You  should  have  been  a  knight,"  he  said,  and 
added  abruptly,  "Very  well,  I  will  go." 

A  bell  sounded  from  the  church  :  he  drew  on  his 
cowl  and  followed  the  Prior  along  the  deep  shadow 
of  the  eastward  cloister. 


LXVIII. 

John  slept  little  that  night,  but  when  he  rose  to  a 
still  sunny  morning  he  had  no  sense  of  fatigue — his 
nerves  were  only  the  more  delicately  set  for  pain  or 
pleasure.  His  mind,  as  he  left  the  Great  Cloister, 
was  a  battlefield  swarming  with  quick  and  violent 
thoughts,  partisans  in  the  struggle  between  curiosity 
and  resolve.  Outside  by  the  porter's  lodge  he  resisted 
a  last  wild  onset :  there  on  the  right  of  the  gateway 
lay  the  little  door  to  the  privy  staircase  of  the  guest- 


A  lover's  luck.  359 

house — the  door  which  led  to  the  separate  chambers 
tor  visitors  of  rank.  To  know  who  was  sleeping 
there  now  he  would  have  stormed  the  entry  in  the 
face  of  anything  that  wore  material  armour.  But  he 
had  given  his  word  to  Nicholas  :  and  there  was  this 
too  to  console  him,  that  welcome  as  a  face  from  the 
past  would  be,  it  could  never,  he  knew,  be  the  face  of 
his  dreams  :  Margaret  must  be  long  ago  safe  beyond 
seas. 

He  turned  out  of  the  gate  and  along  the  front  of 
the  guest-house,  hooded  and  deep  in  thought.  Once 
past  the  long  unfinished  west  side  of  the  cloister,  the 
choice  of  direction  must  be  made :  as  he  stood  at  the 
corner  of  the  wall,  with  a  new  and  pleasant  sense  of 
freedom,  he  caught  sight  of  the  roof  of  his  own  cell, 
and  was  seized  with  a  wayward  desire  to  view  his 
narrow  little  home  from  outside.  On  his  left  lay  the 
end  of  the  ridge  leading  to  the  Hollow  Dell :  he  went 
straight  up  it  like  a  boy  on  a  holiday,  and  came 
quickly  to  the  spot  where  three  years  ago  he  had 
talked  of  the  proposed  founding  of  Mount  Grace,  and 
looked  down  upon  its  site. 

Yes,  it  was  here  that  he  had  rebelled  against  the 
thought  of  losing  Nicholas ;  just  here  that  he  had 
thrown  himself  face  downwards  among  the  bracken  ; 
and  there,  under  the  trees  on  the  edge,  there  he  had 
looked  for  his  friend  again  and  found  in  his  place — 
Margaret. 

Where  she  had  stood  a  figure  was  standing  now — 
a  figure  like  her,   her  very   wraith,  herself.     For  a 


360  LIGHT   IN  THE   WEST. 

moment  he  was  motionless  :  his  whole  vitality,  as  if 
dazed  by  a  lightning-flash,  seemed  to  wait  and  listen 
for  the  heart-shaking  reverberation  that  must  follow. 
Then,  as  he  saw  that  he  was  unrecognised,  a  rage 
came  upon  him  like  the  rage  of  battle.  He  strode 
forward,  sweeping  back  his  hood  upon  his  shoulders 
and  lifting  his  head  as  a  wave  towers  before  break- 
ing. He  heard  her  voice,  as  he  swept  up  ana  over- 
hung her  and  engulfed  her  bodily,  fall  from  alarm 
and  sharp  surprise  to  a  deep  swirl  of  sobbing  content. 
They  spoke  together,  but  their  speech  was  no  more 
than  the  outrush  of  the  foam  over  the  pebbles. 

They  drew  apart  at  last,  but  settled  down  upon 
the  edge  of  the  bank  hand  in  hand. 

"  So  this  is  where  you  were  ! "  she  said,  with  a 
glance  at  his  white  dress. 

"I  had  to  take  their  livery,"  he  answered,  "but  I 
am  no  monk." 

"I  like  you  in  white,"  she  said,  looking  fondly  at 
him,     "  But  what  are  you,  then  ?  " 

"  An  outlaw — a  dead  man — a  head  and  quarters, 
like  any  other  loyal  servant  of  the  king." 

"Don't  be  bitter,"  she  entreated.  "This  oannot 
last — it  must  not ;  you  couldn't  hide  for  ever." 

"  Where  will  you  take  me  ?  " 

She  clasped  his  hand  closer  and  shook  her  head. 

"  We  must  be  patient :  anything  may  happen. 
Who  could  have  told,  when  they  caught  us  at 
Liverpool,  that  we  should  be  here  to-day  ? " 

He  remembered  a  word  of  the  Priors. 


A  lover's  luck.  361 

"  What  brings  you  here?  A  burial?  Yes;  you 
are  in  black." 

She  oould  not  speak  :  her  eyes  tried  to  tell  him 
the  unutterable. 

"We  have  only  just  got  leave,"  she  said  at  last, 
— "leave,  I  mean,  to  take  it  down.  It  was  on 
London  Bridge,  with  the  rest,  until  St  Gregory's 
day.  We  asked  to  bury  it  here,  because  he  was 
their  Founder." 

He  clenched  his  teeth  and  looked  away. 

"Then  they  are  friends  now  —  your  lady  and 
Henry  ?"  he  said. 

"  Every  one  is  her  friend  now ;  but  she  is  no 
friend  of  theirs." 

He  longed  to  take  up  that  "  now  "  and  see  what 
lay  beneath  it ;  but  he  shrank  from  seeming  tc 
accuse  Joan,  and  he  shrank  yet  more  from  asking, 
even  indirectly,  whether  Richard  still  lived  or  not. 
Before  they  parted  he  must  dare  that  question ; 
but  from  moment  to  moment  he  put  it  from  him. 

They  talked  of  a  hundred  other  things :  of  their 
hopes  of  pardon  or  protection,  of  Edmund's  unex- 
pected succession  to  the  earldom,  of  Lord  Stafford's 
power  at  Court :  but  all  came  round  again  to  this, 
all  seemed  to  turn  inevitably  about  this  one  centre. 
Richard  or  Henry  —  which  was  the  pole  by  which 
John  must  steer  his  perplexed  and  dangerous  course? 
Yet  still  he  could  not  force  his  anxiety  to  speak  out : 
he  dreaded  lest  the  truth  should  drive  the  cloud- 
rack  over  his  one  hour  of  happiness. 


362  LIGHT   IN   THE   WEST. 

Meanwhile  Time  was  fleeting  over  them,  invisible 
and  swift  as  the  wind.  Down  below  white  figures 
were  passing  along  the  cloister  alley.  The  Fathers 
were  returning  from  conventual  mass ;  and  by  that, 
and  that  alone,  he  knew  that  he  had  been  away 
two  hours  in  fairyland.  Then  up  the  hillside  came 
the  sound  of  a  bell, — a  single,  cold,  dead  note,  not 
swung,  but  hammered  out  minute  by  minute. 
Margaret  started  to  her  feet. 

"  Oh,  wait ! "  cried  John.  "  You  have  half  an 
hour  yet.  Tell  me,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  "  I  must 
know — what  of  the  king?     They  said  he  had  died." 

"They  said  so.     I  cannot  tell:  no  one  knows." 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  taking  both  her  hands. 
"I  must  know.     Does  Edmund  believe?" 

"  Edmund — yes." 

"And  you?" 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  Her  eyes  were 
soft  with  a  maternal  tenderness  as  she  looked  at 
him.  "What  —  if  she  were  to  revive  its  hopes — 
what  would  the  boyish  heart  of  loyalty  be  daring 
next  ? 

Nevertheless  she  decided  for  truth. 

"I  believe  that  Richard  is  alive:  far  away,  per- 
haps,— in  Scotland,  they  say, — but  alive  and  well." 

The  wave  rose  more  triumphantly  than  before: 
his  eyes  shone  above  her  like  spray  in  sunlight. 
Once  more  she  lay  in  his  arms  and  looked  up  at 
him  with  the  surrender  that  sees  so  far  beyond 
its  conqueror. 


THE    MESSENGER.  363 

Then  the  minute-bell  called  them  again  with  the 
cold  inexorable  voice  of  separation. 

He  stood  to  watch  her  as  she  went  down  the 
slope.  When  she  had  disappeared  round  the  angle 
of  the  wall,  he  drew  his  hood  over  his  face  and 
followed  with  long  springing  strides. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  Prior  began  the 
Office  for  the  Dead  beside  an  open  grave  on  the 
south  side  of  the  church.  In  the  presence  of  two 
ladies  and  other  mourners  from  outside  the  members 
of  the  Community  were  closely  hooded :  but  every 
one  of  them  was  present,  and  some  among  them 
were  deeply  moved. 


LXIX. 

Margaret  came  again  with  her  mistress  to  Mount 
Grace  in  August ;  and  twice  more  during  John's 
long  captivity.  On  each  of  these  great  days  the 
Prior  of  his  own  accord  sent  John  to  the  guest- 
house ;  he  knew  the  bird  was  not  yet  tamed,  but 
he  knew,  too,  the  impossibility  of  escape.  To  forbid 
such  lovers  to  meet  would  have  been  to  drive  them 
to  desperation ;  and  though  these  glimpses  of  a 
single  hour  might  very  probably  be  undoing  the 
patient  work  of  the  months  between,  yet  they 
could  do  nothing,  he  trusted,  towards  taking  John 


364  LIGHT  IN  THE   WEST. 

back  into  the  world.  The  usurper  had  refused  Joan 
permission  to  bring  her  husband's  body  from  Ciren- 
cester to  Mount  Grace :  he  was  not  likely  to  pardon 
the  living  while  he  still  persecuted  the  dead. 

So  Nicholas  did  not  despair ;  nor  did  he  fight 
for  John's  soul  any  the  less  keenly  because  he 
fought  according  to  the  usage  of  chivalry  rather 
than  that  of  churchmanship.  To  the  subtle  among 
priests  all  methods  are  said  to  be  good  in  their 
place  :  Nicholas  acted  as  a  master  in  the  craft  would 
have  acted,  but  he  did  so  by  the  sheer  instinct  of 
simplicity. 

John  accepted  his  kindness  gratefully,  without 
any  thought  of  motives.  For  him  Margaret's 
coming  had  changed  everything.  He  had  realised 
that  his  thoughts  were  becoming  more  religious, 
but  he  now  perceived  that  they  were  still  in  the 
main  not  thoughts  about  religion  —  they  had  as 
little  as  ever  to  do  with  any  kind  of  professional- 
ism. He  had  learned  to  look  at  all  things  in  the 
light  of  Eternity;  but  even  so  he  hoped  —  how 
ardently — to  achieve  life  to  the  full,  to  have  it 
whole,  not  mutilated,  not  monastic,  but  with  all  its 
natural  body  parts  and  passions,  the  danger  and 
the  mastery. 

This  desire,  this  resolve,  was  only  half  conscious : 
it  came  of  itself ;  but  his  councils  with  Margaret 
brought  him  insight  of  another  kind  to  strengthen 
it.  She  was  by  allegiance  an  enemy,  but  still,  as 
on  the  day  when  they  first  met,  an  enemy  who  would 


THE    MESSENGER.  3(55 

accept  no  craven  surrender.  When  he  asked  if 
Richard  still  lived,  she  had  told  him  the  truth  of  her 
belief,  and  always  she  kept  alive  in  him  the  hope 
to  strike  another  stroke  for  the  cause  that  was  not 
hers.  Henry  of  Lancaster,  it  is  true,  had  by  this  time 
disillusioned  most  of  his  friends ;  but  if  he  had  been 
all  she  once  believed,  she  would  still  have  sent  her 
man  to  do  a  man's  duty  for  the  master  he  had  chosen. 
This  was  a  real  illumination  to  John :  he  got  from 
her,  what  a  man  of  his  active  temperament  seldom 
gets,  a  sight  of  the  thread  upon  which  his  own  acts 
and  fortunes  had  all  been  hung.  He  had  been  born 
and  bred  to  loyalty :  it  was  in  his  blood  to  devote 
his  strength  proudly  to  that  which  was  greater  than 
himself,  and  from  the  first  the  king's  service  had 
been  his  horizon  of  hope.  William  the  Singer  had 
pointed  him  to  it  when  it  was  still  far  off  beneath 
the  rainbow :  Tom  and  Edmund  had  led  him  straight 
towards  it  by  a  path  he  loved,  a  path  in  which  even 
Margaret  had  helped  to  steady  his  steps.  "  Loyalty 
is  your  familiar  spirit "  was  Nicholas  Love's  reproach 
in  old  days.  Truly  it  had  ended  by  driving  him 
down  the  steep  place,  but  he  was  more  than  ever 
sure  that  it  was  no  devil :  it  had  brought  him  near 
to  destruction,  but  by  not  one  stride  that  he  regretted. 
If  the  deep  waters  really  lay  that  way,  it  was  Mar- 
garet's creed  and  his  that  the  final  plunge  could  not 
be  too  boldly  dared.  Upon  that  he  had  taken  her 
promise :  she  would  give  him  warning  when  the 
moment  came  near. 


366  LIGHT   IN   THE   WEST. 

Neither  of  them  doubted  that  it  would  come :  all 
through  the  summer  of  1402  the  country  was  whisper- 
ing, murmuring,  babbling  with  gossip  of  Richard's 
return.  He  was  here  and  there,  he  was  at  the  head 
of  armies,  he  was  backed  by  Scotland  and  by  France, 
his  brother-in-law  Count  Waleran  de  St  Pol  was  in 
arms  before  Calais.  Henry's  alarm  was  plain  to 
see :  a  long  list  of  executions  added  to  the  hate  with 
which  he  was  loading  himself. 

In  the  spring  of  1403  Louis  of  Orleans  defied 
Henry  Duke  of  Lancaster  to  battle :  the  challenge 
was  of  course  disdained,  but  it  echoed  beyond  Severn, 
beyond  Trent,  beyond  Tyne.  The  noise  of  it  rang 
even  through  the  refectories  of  the  great  religious 
houses ;  and  came,  last  of  all,  perhaps,  into  the 
cloister  of  Mount  Grace. 

A  long  July  day  was  going  slowly  out  in  wave 
upon  wave  of  very  faintly  ebbing  heat.  The  great 
court  lay  already  half  in  shade,  and  since  the  Fourth 
Ave  not  a  sound  had  broken  the  stillness  except  the 
monotonous  murmur  of  ring-doves  in  the  wood  be- 
hind. John  was  standing,  as  he  had  stood  so  many 
times  under  the  heart  -  breaking  beauty  of  those 
summer  evenings,  in  the  doorway  which  led  into  the 
garden  of  his  cell :  he  was  looking  up  at  the  glory 
of  evening  sunlight  which  had  already  left  his  tiny 
high-walled  plot,  but  was  shining  more  and  more 
brightly  on  the  hillside  above.  It  was  seven  o'clock ; 
the  loveliest  hour  of  all  was  beginning,  the  hour  at 
which,  according  to  the  rule  of  St  Bruno,  his  waking- 


1HB    CHOICE.  367 

day  must  end.  One  more  moment  of  sunshine,  and 
he  would  obey. 

In  that  moment,  before  he  moved,  he  knew  that 
he  was  not  alone.  Footsteps  had  crossed  behind 
him  from  the  oloister  alley  to  the  interior  of  his  cell. 
He  turned  down  the  narrow  passage  and  followed 
into  the  bare  little  room. 

There,  as  he  expected,  stood  the  Prior ;  but  there 
also,  by  the  Prior's  side,  stood  Margaret's  messenger, 
William  the  Singer. 


LXX. 

John  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  was  in  presence  of 
two  opposed  forces;  saw,  too,  that  the  contest  was 
to  be  about  himself.  Inopportune,  perverse  though 
it  was,  his  feeling  instantly  took  sides  with  Nicholas 
against  the  intruder. 

Nicholas  was  standing  a  little  apart :  he  had  never 
looked  more  solid  or  more  serene.  He  also  knew, 
of  course,  on  what  errand  William  was  there :  he 
knew  that  the  crisis  had  come  at  last,  the  supreme 
moment  against  which  he  had  all  this  time  been 
laying  up  strength.  It  was  no  slight  bond  by  which 
he  held  John :  strand  by  strand  he  had  twisted  it 
himself,  and  though  the  trial  had  come  sooner  than 
he  hoped,  he  could  hardly  have  been  blamed  if  he  had 


368  LIGHT  IN   THE   WEST. 

aet  the  whole  weight  of  his  influence  on  the  strain 
against  anything  this  messenger  could  do  or  urge. 
A  lesser  man  would  certainly  have  been  overbearing 
or  ingenious. 

Yet,  as  before,  the  Prior  was  something  more  than 
Prior :  his  instinct  served  him  better  than  authority 
or  cunning.  He  faced  his  danger  squarely,  and 
while  his  antagonist  was  still  uncertain,  still  hesi- 
tating for  an  opening,  he  had  seized  the  attack  and 
gained  the  first  advantage. 

"The  news  is  grave,"  he  said  to  John;  "there  is 
a  rising  in  the  North  and  West  on  a  considerable 
scale.  You  will  know  better  than  I  can  how  it 
affects  yourself,  and  you  may  wish  to  discuss  it 
alone." 

To  the  messenger,  his  going  was  no  more  than  a 
relief:  but  John  knew  better  what  the  alternative 
had  been,  what  the  effort  must  have  cost. 

"William,"  he  said,  when  the  Prior  had  dis- 
appeared, "that  is  a  great  gentleman." 

"Ay,"  replied  the  other;  "but  there's  no  judging 
the  covey  by  the  cock." 

John's  hostility  was  on  edge  in  a  moment :  this 
man  had  never  failed  to  interest  and  irritate  him. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"  One  here,  perhaps,  and  another,  it  may  be,  before 
the  world's  end:  but  for  the  rest  there's  as  much 
light  in  such  men's  noils  as  you  might  meet  in  a  mist 
from  morn  to  even." 


THE    CHOICE.  369 

"They  are  my  friends,"  said  John.  "  Let  me  hear 
your  message." 

William  seemed  conscious  that  he  had  made  a  bad 
beginning :  for  he  too  had  a  cause  to  plead.  He  was 
silent,  and  in  the  pause  a  quiet  slow  step  was  heard, 
pacing  the  empty  cloister  outside.  John  loved  the 
sound  of  that  step. 

"  Come  !  "  he  said,  more  sharply  still.  "  What's 
your  news  ?  " 

William's  dark  eyes  turned  imploringly  upon  him. 
"  Though  a  fool  blow  it,"  he  answered,  "  the  horn  is 
always  the  horn  to  a  good  hound.  They  are  hunt- 
ing at  last :  I  bid  you  forward  if  you  still  love 
Richard." 

The  time  had  come  then :  how  should  John  need 
bidding  ?     Yet  he  was  still  perverse. 

"  Speak  plainly,"  he  said.     "  Who  are  '  they '  ?  " 

William's  enthusiasm  was  lamed.  "  Glendower  is 
out   .   .   .   and  Mortimer." 

John  blew  the  names  away  like  so  much  chaff. 

"  The  Welsh  ! — They  never  hunt  any  trail  but  their 
own,  and  Mortimer  is  a  boy,  a  puppet !  Have  you 
none  better  than  these  ?  " 

Again  William  hesitated.  "  Douglas  .  .  .  and  the 
Percies  have  risen — Worcester,  Hotspur,  and  the  old 
Earl,  all  three." 

"  The  Percies  !  What  ?  "  cried  John.  "  The 
Percies  ! — for  Richard  !  " 

"No:  against  Henry." 

2  A 


370  LIGHT   IN   THE    WEST. 

"  Traitor  against  traitor :  and  how  comes  that  ?  " 

"  When  rent  is  spent,"  said  William,  "  and  men 
come  to  the  bare  bags  " — he  grasped  the  air  with  his 
hand — "force  must  be  to  fill  them  again." 

"  Aha !  they  have  fallen  out  over  the  plunder ! " 
John  almost  snarled  with  delight.  "  But  a  thieves' 
quarrel  is  not  for  me." 

"  Why  not  ?  I  heard  one  say  of  his  sword,  '  Clean 
it  may  be,  keen  it  must ' !  " 

"  Keen  ?  —  they  are  butchers'  knives  :  but  why 
should  I  touch  them  ?  " 

"  If  Richard's  men  are  all  so  white-handed,  Richard 
will  be  hungrier  yet." 

John  saw  that  he  had  overshot :  to  be  honest,  any 
blade  would  do  to  strike  at  the  usurper.  But  he  was 
not  ready  to  acknowledge  it. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said.     "  I  will  take  counsel." 

"Counsel?"  William's  eyes  burned,  and  his  low 
voice  was  once  more  stirring  the  tumult  in  John's 
blood.  "  Counsel  is  a  word  of  the  wise  :  but  you  and 
I  were  fellow-fools  once,  in  a  younger  year." 

"  You  forget,"  retorted  John,  "  that  in  those 
days  you  cried  out  on  the  Court  for  a  gang  of 
wasters." 

"Do  I  forget ?  My  dreams  are  yet  wild  with  it. 
Young  men  of  yesterday,  in  gold  and  gules :  spending 
of  spicery  more  than  it  needed,  wax  and  wine  in 
waste  all  about,  with  dancing  of  damsels  and  mirth 
of  minstrels — I  forbid  no  man  to  be  blithe  some  while, 
but  the  brightness  of  that  world  was  the  mirror  of 


THE    CHOICE.  371 

sin.  Their  travail  was  in  robbery  and  their  honour 
in  lordly  names :  their  faith  was  an  evil  fellowship, 
and  their  manfulness  stark  murder." 

The  truth  and  untruth  stung  John  together. 
"  Ay ! "  he  cried  angrily.  "  So  you  were  pleased 
to  say :  and  this  world  here  that  you  despise — of 
what  is  this  the  mirror  ?  " 

"  Of  madness,  surely :  there  is  nothing  above 
mould  so  mad  as  that  which  is  done  against  kind. 
Is  not  man's  kind  to  live  manlike  among  men,  and 
fail  after  the  flesh  ?  This  private  peace,  this  hiding 
from  hindrance,  may  never  long  endure,  for  all  the 
rules  in  Rome  :  nay  !  if  any  thus  lived  his  life  to  the 
end  secure  in  self  and  lapped  in  loneliness,  without 
trial  or  temptings,  he  might  well  say  that  he  saw 
what  was  never  yet  seen,  high  Heaven  unhung  out 
of  the  hooks  and  let  down  earthwards  at  the  bidding 
of  a  child  of  clay." 

The  music  of  this  voice  was  terrible  to  John  :  it 
chanted  his  own  thoughts  aloud  to  him,  and  de- 
manded an  "  Amen  "  which  he  had  no  right  to  refuse. 
Yet  to  speak  it  would  be  to  give  up  Nicholas,  and 
that  he  would  never  do. 

"  Go  !  "  he  cried  with  sudden  vehemence.  "  Go ! 
Go  !  You  have  done  your  errand,  the  rest  is  for 
me."  He  pushed  him  out  into  the  cloister  and  shut 
the  door. 

Five  minutes  later  the  Prior  returned. 

"  William  is  gone,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  you  do  not 
think  me  wrong  to  have  brought  him  ?  " 


372  LIGHT   IN  THE   WEST. 

"  No,  no!  not  wrong,"  John  replied.  "But  I  could 
not  think  while  he  was  here." 

He  could  not  think  now :  he  had  driven  away  the 
singer,  but  the  song  went  on  within  himself.  He 
knew  well  enough  that  his  choice  was  made :  it  had 
never  been  in  question  from  the  beginning,  though 
he  had  thrust  from  him  the  moment  of  confessing  it. 
That  moment  was  upon  him  now :  and  in  the  re- 
bellion for  which  his  blood  was  tingling  he  must 
strike  the  first  and  sharpest  blow  at  his  own  friend. 

"  Nicholas  !  " — his  hand  reached  out  despairingly — 
"forgive  me,  forgive  me." 

The  blow  went  home :  Nicholas  knew  that  he 
had  lost. 

"John,"  he  said  in  his  gentlest,  least  urgent  tone, 
"  you  have  no  doubts  ?  " 

John's  groan  was  almost  a  roar  of  pain.  "  Doubts ! 
I  have  a  thousand !  I  must  side  with  traitors,  I 
must  trust  my  life  to  renegades  ;  I  have  no  cer- 
tainty of  Margaret's  wishes,  no  guess  of  our  chances 
of  success." 

The  last  ray  of  hope  died  out  of  Nicholas'  face. 
In  this  heart  that  he  loved  he  saw  pride  stirring, 
and  prudence  and  affection :  but  not  one  regret,  not 
one  thought  of  that  which  must  be  left.  The  world 
was  calling  its  own. 

John  knew  what  he  had  done :  nothing  remained 
but  to  end  it.  He  began  to  pull  off  his  cowl.  At 
that  Nicholas  started  suddenly,  and  strode  across 
into  the  little  oratory. 


HATELEY   FIELD.  373 

When  John  came  down  again  from  his  upper  room, 
dressed  once  more  in  the  fashion  of  his  old  life,  the 
cell  was  empty.  He  stole  out  into  the  oloister  :  for 
all  the  immeasurable  gulf  of  time  that  he  had  crossed, 
the  glow  of  sunset  was  not  yet  gone  from  the  hill. 

At  the  cloister  door  stood  Nicholas,  impenetrably 
serene  and  kind. 

"You  cannot  go  on  foot,"  he  said. 

"I  must."  John's  hoarse  voice  was  sackcloth  to 
the  other's  satin. 

"Oh!  no,"  Nicholas  replied.  "William  has  left 
his  horse  for  you." 

The  horse  was  there,  outside  the  gateway,  obvious, 
tangible,  unreal,  a  thing  that  John  could  speak  of. 

"  But  how  is  William  going  himself  ?  "  he  asked  as 
he  mounted. 

"I  do  not  know,"  answered  Nicholas  with  the 
accent  that  was  most  his  own.  "  Perhaps  he  is  not 
in  a  hurry." 

John  saw  little  of  his  road :  but  he  was  in  York 
by  morning. 


LXXL 

Southward,  southward,  southward  !  That  way  lay 
battle  and  allegiance,  and  love  or  death, — the  end  at 
any  rate  of  delays  and  uncertainties ;  but  first  and 
above  all,  battle,  something  to  do,  something  to  win 


374  LIGHT   IN   THE    WEST. 

or  lose,  some  one  to  grapple  with.  John's  eyes  turned 
again  and  again,  at  every  halt,  to  the  string  of  pack- 
horses,  piled  with  arms,  that  brought  up  the  rear  of 
the  little  company.  One  night,  when  no  one  could 
see  him,  he  drew  his  sword  and  poised  it ;  many  times 
he  recalled  the  arrow  flight  at  Maidenhead,  and  felt 
a  fierce  joy  that  he  would  find  some  of  the  incompar- 
able Cheshire  bows  with  Hotspur. 

He  winced  a  little  whenever  that  name  came  to 
mind ;  the  Percies,  he  felt,  were  no  leaders  for  a  loyal 
man.  They  had  been  among  Richard's  cruellest  and 
most  mercenary  enemies,  and  now  that  for  equally 
sordid  reasons  they  had  turned  against  the  hand  that 
hired  them,  their  violence  and  self-seeking  were  almost 
more  offensive  than  before.  In  the  baseness  of  an 
enemy  you  may  find  strength  for  yourself,  from  the 
baseness  of  an  ally  you  can  get  nothing  but  harm. 
Thankfully,  John  remembered  that  Hotspur  was  not 
supreme;  Glendower  was  a  greater  commander, 
and  Douglas,  it  was  commonly  said,  a  gallant  heart 
worthy  of  his  name. 

The  men  with  whom  he  rode  were  the  more  to 
his  liking  because  they  were  not  of  the  Percy  faction, 
though  they  had  been  raised  by  Northumberland  to 
reinforce  his  son.  They  were  Yorkshiremen — many 
of  them  from  (Nottingham  and  Kirby  Moorside,  old 
tenants  of  the  Hollands,  and  proud  of  their  late  lord. 
Not  a  man  among  them  doubted  that  they  would 
satisfactorily  avenge  him  upon  the  usurper,  and  that 
King  Richard  would  then  return  from  some  craftily 


HATELEY   FIELD.  375 

chosen  asylum  to  receive  his  own  again  at  their 
hands.  They  took  John's  unlooked-for  reappearance 
as  a  case  strongly  in  point,  and  scoffed  at  the  claims 
of  young  Mortimer,  whom  Glendower  and  the  slip- 
pery Northumbrians  were  proposing  for  the  Crown. 
John  heard  them  with  infinite  comfort,  and  believed 
quite  half  of  what  he  beard  ;  they  were  at  any  rate 
magnificently  mounted,  they  rode  like  centaurs,  and 
were  as  keen  as  terriers  for  a  fight. 

The  fight  came  suddenly.  On  the  evening  of  the 
19th  they  reached  Chester,  to  find  that  Hotspur  had 
moved  on  Shrewsbury  the  day  before.  King  Henry 
was  reported  to  be  raising  levies  in  Lord  Stafford's 
country,  and  John,  after  a  good  march  on  the  20th, 
started  next  morning  from  Wem  with  every  expecta- 
tion of  a  short  day's  work  for  his  final  stage. 

At  eleven  o'clock  he  was  riding  quietly  towards 
Shrewsbury,  now  only  three  miles  distant,  when  the 
lazy  July  air  was  sharply  pierced  by  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet.  Another  repeated  the  call  still  nearer  at 
hand,  and  was  answered  faintly  by  yet  another  in  the 
direction  of  the  town.  He  looked  round  him :  if  he 
was  mistaken,  so  were  his  terriers,  —  every  one  of 
them  was  growling  with  ears  pricked  and  bristles 
set.  In  five  minutes  the  whole  party  came  galloping 
into  the  left  wing  of  Douglas's  command. 

They  had  arrived  to  the  minute :  two  or  three 
hours  of  parleying  had  just  ended  in  a  jaugle  of 
pot  against  kettle, — Thomas  Percy  tauntiug  Henry 
with   being    a    man    whose    word    none   could    trust. 


376  LIGHT   IN   THE    WEST. 

Henry's  people  were  chafing  to  repay  this  insult, 
and  their  attack  was  only  delayed  by  the  difficulty 
of  the  position :  they  had  to  manoeuvre  among  a 
tangle  of  narrow  lanes  and  small  enclosed  fields, 
made  more  impassable  by  a  fine  crop  of  standing 
peas.  Above  them,  on  a  large  stretch  of  rising 
ground  from  which  the  hay  had  been  all  carried, 
their  enemies  awaited  them  at  great  advantage. 

John,  while  his  armour  was  unpacked  and  buckled 
on,  looked  down  the  slope  with  immense  satisfaction. 
Below  him  the  Cheshire  bows  were  already  taking 
post  on  both  flanks  :  above,  the  men-at-arms  were 
lining  out  along  the  whole  position ;  they  would  be 
able  to  charge  downhill  when  the  enemy's  front  had 
but  half  cleared  the  labyrinth  of  hedgerows  and  pea- 
sticks.  Disadvantages  he  also  marked:  the  little 
army  was  very  short  of  billmen  for  the  hand-to-hand 
fighting ;  it  was  liable  to  be  outflanked  by  the 
enemy's  superior  numbers,  and  Glendower's  banner 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  had  just  captured 
Carmarthen,  some  one  said,  and  though  urgently 
recalled,  he  could  not  be  back  in  time. 

But  nothing  could  dim  the  scene  for  John  :  Douglas 
himself  as  he  passed  along  the  front  inquired  his 
name  and  commended  him  for  coming  in  time.  John 
asked  if  he  was  in  his  right  place — he  felt  bound  to 
confess  that  he  had  been  sent  to  join  the  Percies. 
"Ay,  man,"  answered  Douglas,  "ye're  wrang;  but 
I'll  hang  ye  if  ye  move  a  yard."  A  knight  who 
followed    him    explained   that    the  brunt  would  fall 


HATELEY   FIELD.  377 

on  this  part  of  the  line ;  for  the  Constable  himself 
was  leading  the  enemy's  right,  and  the  usurper  was 
reported  to  be  with  him,  dressed  in  the  lions  and 
lilies  he  had  stolen  from  Richard. 

"The  Constable":  a  question  was  on  John's  lips, 
but  he  swallowed  it.  A  monk  might  ask  who  was 
Constable  of  England,  a  soldier  could  not.  He 
looked  for  the  banner  opposite :  it  was  just  coming 
into  range,  and  as  the  sun  lit  up  its  square  of  gold 
and  showed  the  bold  red  chevron  of  Stafford,  the 
blood  rushed  back  to  his  heart  like  the  bore  of  the 
tidal  wave  up  Severn.  A  moment  later  the  stream 
of  thought  turned  again  to  its  course,  brimmed  and 
glittering  with  a  full  flood  of  resolve.  The  royal 
lions,  thought  John  in  this  moment  of  inspiration, 
were  a  mark  for  his  betters,  and  Douglas  the  man 
to  hunt  them ;  but  the  Constable  should  be  his  own. 
Once  at  Pleshey,  and  again  at  Windsor,  Tom  had 
honoured  him  with  the  charge  of  Lord  Stafford's 
safety :  in  the  coming  victory  he  could  still  be  serv- 
ing the  dead.  Prisoner  or  no  prisoner,  ransom  or 
no  ransom,  Lady  Joan's  brother  should  not  be 
touched  by  any  hand  but  his  own.  He  gave  an 
order  very  quietly  to  the  men  behind  him,  and 
felt  even  happier  than  before. 

Meanwhile  the  archers  below  were  already  at 
work ;  and  sad  work  it  was  for  the  Derbyshire  men 
who  came  against  them.  In  two  successive  attacks 
the  red  cocks  of  Cokaine  and  the  golden  escallop 
shells   of  Wendsley  were   shot   to   pieces   and   sank 


378  LIGHT   IN  THE  WEST. 

in  the  green  morass  of  peas.  But  the  Stafford 
archers  succeeded  in  establishing  themselves  here 
and  there  among  the  hedges,  and  their  shooting 
was  good  enough  to  cover  a  third  advance.  The 
Cheshire  men,  too,  by  continually  extending  left- 
wards to  save  the  flank,  had  opened  the  centre, 
and  Henry's  men-at-arms  began  to  pour  into  the 
gap. 

The  crisis  had  come:  trumpets  were  sounding  all 
along  the  slope.  Before  they  were  silent  Douglas 
and  the  two  Percies  rode  out  in  front  of  their  heavy 
eavalry,  with  visors  lowered,  and  standard-bearers 
close  behind  them.  John  saw,  in  the  moment  before 
the  line  moved  off,  that  every  available  man  was 
in  the  charge :  there  were  no  supports — the  fortune 
of  the  day  was  upon  a  single  throw.  He  remem- 
bered, too,  as  he  lowered  his  own  visor,  that  he 
was  wearing  neither  badge  nor  surcoat:  for  him  a 
fall  would  mean  a  nameless  death  under  the  nearest 
billman's  knife.  His  pulse  bounded  as  he  struck 
spurs;  but  his  eyes  had  never  been  dearer  in  his 
life. 

Time  and  his  senses  no  longer  seemed  to  keep  their 
accustomed  relation :  he  saw  an  infinite  number  of 
things  happen  while  he  galloped  a  bare  quarter- 
mile.  On  the  right  Worcester  was  down,  Hotspur 
was  engulfed :  nearer  to  him  he  saw  Douglas  meet 
a  phantom  of  King  Henry  full  face,  smash  it,  coronet 
and  all,  with  a  single  stroke  and  pass  on  towards 
another   royal    figure,    entrenched    behind    a   double 


HATELEY   FIELD.  379 

line  of  men-at-arms.  This  was  the  real  king,  for 
there  was  Lord  Stafford  too,  under  his  own  banner, 
covering  his  master. 

In  this  last  moment  of  the  race  John  led  his  men 
sharply  inwards,  converging  with  Douglas  upon  the 
same  file  of  the  bodyguard :  the  shock  carried  the 
two  leaders  through,  a  man  or  two  more  struggling 
after  them.  But  John's  horse  was  dying :  as  it 
sank  he  found  that  his  right  arm  would  no  longer 
serve  him.  He  rolled  off  on  to  his  left  side  and 
was  up  again  in  time  to  see  Douglas  fall :  Stafford 
was  bending  from  his  saddle  in  a  furious  effort  to 
withdraw  his  sword  from  his  fallen  enemy :  from 
the  mellay  a  rider  on  a  great  bay  horse  was  charg- 
ing down  on  him,  hotly  pursued  in  turn  by  three 
men-at-arms. 

With  his  sword  in  his  left  hand  and  visor  open, 
staggering  and  half-dazed,  John  stood  up  to  defend 
Lord  Stafford  against  his  own  ally.  "  No  !  no ! " 
he  shouted  desperately,   "  no  !  " 

"You  fool!"  cried  Swynnerton's  unforgotten  voice. 
The  great  bay  rose  over  John  and  trampled  him : 
the  rider  struck  once  at  Stafford,  crashed  through 
into  a  lane,  and  was  gone  beyond  pursuit. 

John  heard  voices  olose  beside  him.  "They  are 
both  dead,   Sir,"  one  was  saying. 

He  acquiesced,  and  the  world  went  out. 


380  LIGHT   IN   THE    WEST. 


LXXII. 

John  had  acquiesced  too  readily :  he  had  a  sword- 
cut,  a  broken  arm,  and  several  hoof-marks,  but  he 
was  not  nearly  dead.  In  a  comfortable  lodging  in 
Shrewsbury,  and  under  the  hands  of  the  king's 
surgeon,  he  even  began  to  mend. 

What  was  to  become  of  him  he  did  not  know: 
though  he  had  speculated  furiously  all  through  his 
first  night  of  fever.  A  mood  of  indifference  followed, 
and  then  one  of  almost  luxurious  content.  But  this, 
too,  gave  way  to  realities :  the  cheerful  bone-setter, 
mistaking  him  for  a  hero  of  the  bodyguard,  talked 
lightly  of  the  vanquished  and  their  well -merited 
end — Vernon,  Venables,  and  Lord  Worcester  had 
all  been  beheaded.  To  silence  him  John  turned 
on  his  pillow  and  closed  his  eyes :  even  so  the 
market-place  at  Cirencester  was  too  vividly  before 
them. 

On  the  third  day  Lord  Stafford's  wife  and  sister 
came  from  Lichfield. 

Next  morning  the  surgeon  was  still  more  cheerful. 
"  I  have  brought  some  one  to  see  you,"  he  said  as 
he  entered  John's  room,  and  being  as  kindly  as  he 
was  indiscreet,  he  stayed  to  witness  the  meeting. 

John  was  a  little  embarrassed  :  but  Margaret  was 
here  mistress  in  her  own  house.  It  was  not  until 
she  had  knelt  by  John's  couch,  and  kissed  him  like 


THE   GREAT   CLOISTER.  381 

a  wife  and  scolded  him  like  a  mother,  that  she  even 
remembered  the  bystander.  "I  am  grateful  to  you 
for  your  oare  of  him,"  she  said  cordially.  "And  now 
I  think  we  can  release  you  for  to-day." 

John  had  no  hand  that  he  could  give  her  :  she 
drew  a  chair  up  close,  and  sat  opposite,  looking 
into  his  eyes. 

"You  poor  John,"  she  said  at  last,  "what  have 
they  done  to  you?" 

"Caught  me,"  he  replied.  "The  question  is  what 
they  are  going  to  do  to  me." 

She  was  silent :  she  looked  down  and  the  light 
went  from  her  face. 

"Margaret,"  he  said  softly,  to  break  her  reverie, 
and  then  when  she  raised  her  eyes,  "  I  am  sorry, 
darling,  I  am  sorry.  I  took  the  risk  wilfully  and 
wrongly,  and  you  must  forgive  me.  Whatever 
happens,  you  must  be  able  to  remember  that  I  con- 
fessed and  you  forgave  me.  You  see  I  thought, 
when  you  sent  no  message  with  your  news,  that 
you  were  perhaps  caring  too  much  for  my  own 
safety." 

Her  lips  began  to  tremble.  "I  was,"  she  said. 
"  I  did  it  on  purpose :  I  hoped  you  would  not  go : 
it  was  my  selfishness  —  as  if  your  loyalty  did  not 
come  first." 

"I  don't  know  why  it  should,"  he  answered  quietly. 
"  Perhaps  that  is  a  kind  of  selfishness  too :  there  is 
your  king,  you  know,  as  well  as  mine.  Why  should 
it  be  yours  to  give  way  ?  " 


382  LIGHT   IN  THE   WEST. 

Her  eyes  flashed  like  crystal  daggers.  "  He  shall, 
he  shall,"  she  cried,  "or  I  will  be  a  rebel  myself." 

That  moved  John  to  compunction.  "  After  all," 
he  said  in  a  lighter  tone,  "  he  has  treated  me  well 
so  far,  and  I  dare  say  he  will  never  think  of  me 
again." 

She  was  all  sober  sense  in  a  moment.  "  Oh  !  you 
are  wrong :  he  is  thinking  about  you  now — I  know 
it.     At  first  he  meant  to  reward  you." 

"For  trying  to  save  Stafford?" 

"  Yes :  he  thought  you  were  one  of  his  own 
men.  But  someone  was  there  who  had  seen  you  at 
Flint." 

"  And  now  ?  "     His  pulse  quickened  secretly. 

"Now,"  she  answered  with  decision,  "he  has  me 
to  deal  with." 

She  rose  and  bent  over  him.  "  Do  you  think  you 
owe  me  anything  ?  " 

"  Everything." 

"  I  will  take  it :  I  can  do  better  with  it  than  you 
would." 

She  lingered  over  her  going :  then  "  Remember," 
she  said,  "  I  am  taking  all  you  have — your  life,  your 
lands,  your  name,  your  arms,  and  your  honour." 

"  Oh  !  my  honour  ?  " 

"  That  has  always  been  mine — always." 

She  was  gone  more  than  an  hour.  When  she 
returned  she  took  her  place  again  in  silence.  He, 
too,  hung  back  from  the  supreme  moment,  looking 
not  at  her  face,  but  at  the  roses  and  jessamine  in 


THE   GREAT   CLOISTER  383 

her  hand.  She  tossed  them  upon  the  couch  and 
threw  herself  upon  her  knees  again,  pressing  back 
his  hair  from  his  forehead  with  both  hands,  as  if 
to  see  better  what  she  possessed. 

"I  keep  you,"  she  oried.  "I  keep  you — you  are 
mine ! " 

"That's  good,"  he  said  quietly,  to  cheat  the  folly 
in  his  blood.  She,  too,  was  moved  to  play  a  little 
with  her  triumph. 

"Wait,"  she  answered;  "you  have  not  yet  heard 
what  the  bargain  is.  The  king  grants  and  confirms 
to  me,  Margaret  Marland,  all  that  his  prisoner  or 
rebel,  John  Marland,  to  hold  of  him  in  capite,  with 
the  name  and  arms  properly  thereto  belonging,  and 
the  manor  of  Gardenleigh,  in  the  county  of  Somerset. 
I,  Margaret  Marland,  surrender  to  him,  the  king,  all 
my  right,  title,  and  interest  in  the  manor  of  East- 
wich,  in  the  County  Palatine  of  Chester,  with  the 
arms  of  Mells,  and  the  homage  of  my  said  husband 
during  his  life." 

John  started,  but  she  held  up  her  hand  and  went 
on,  "  Saving  always  his  fealty  to  Richard,  King  of 
England." 

His  astonishment  was  almost  fierce.  "  You  said 
that,  Margaret  ?  —  and  what  answer  had  he  to 
that?" 

She  dealt  the  blow  as  tenderly  as  she  could, 
watching  him  with  pain  in  her  eyes. 

"He  leaves  you  free  to  obey  any  order  of  King 
Richard's    which    .    .    ."     John    turned    pale   as   she 


384  LIGHT   IN  THE   WEST. 

hesitated,  "...  which  you  shall  at  any  time  here- 
after receive  from  him  in  person." 

The  mist  of  wilful  hope  passed  from  before  his 
eyes.  "  Richard  is  dead :  Richard  is  dead,"  he  said 
silently,  as  if  to  something  deep  within  himself, 
and  from  the  depth  something  answered  him,  "  You 
knew  it." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  aloud.  "  I  knew  it  long  ago : 
Edmund  knew,  and  I  could  never  have  mistrusted 
Edmund." 

She  made  no  answer ;  but  as  her  eyes  were  close 
enough  to  mirror  his  face,  so  her  mind  reflected 
his  thought,  spoken  or  unspoken.  At  Edmund's 
name  they  went  back  together  to  the  past :  they 
looked  for  the  England  of  old  days,  and  saw  it  as 
those  who  return  after  an  earthquake  see  their  home 
in  ruins.  John  had  long  borne  this  sight,  but  on 
Margaret  it  struck  with  fresh  poignancy. 

"Darling,"  she  cried,  "it  is  a  terrible  world:  I 
have  brought  you  back  to  a  desert." 

"What  was  Mount  Grace  but  a  desert?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  You  were  better  off  with 
Nicholas — your  soul,  I  mean." 

He  smiled  as  one  who  hears  a  pardonable  error. 
"Nioholas  is  a  dear  fellow,  but  he  spoke  the  truth 
about  himself  when  he  told  me  once  that  life  terrified 
him.  What  he  and  his  like  really  desire  is  not 
to  make  life  better,  but  to  escape  from  living 
altogether." 

"From  the  evil  of  living,"  said  Maigaret  wistfully, 


THE   GBEAT  CLOISTER.  385 

"  and  there  is  evil  enough.  Is  it  not  true  that  man 
needs  a  cloister — a  quiet  place  apart,  where  he  can 
always  find  his  best  self  and  think  of  all  things 
purely?     Forget  rue  for  a  moment,  and  confess." 

John  laughed  at  her,  —  his  happiest  laugh. 
"Dearest,  you  are  right!  The  soul  does  need  a 
cloister,  but — to  forget  you  I  No  !  listen  to  me  :  let 
me  tell  you  what  I  know:  I  say  nothing  against 
monks,  but  for  a  man  there's  only  one  safe  place 
in  this  world  .  .  ." 

Her  eyes  shone  above  him  as  he  paused. 

"A  man's  cloister  is  his  lady's  heart." 

So  these  two,  after  grief  and  danger  and  long 
separation,  began  at  last  their  life  together.  In 
that  dark  and  perplexed  time  it  was  not  perhaps 
the  least  part  of  their  good  fortune  that  it  must 
be  a  life  of  obscurity  and  quiet.  From  their  remote 
corner  of  the  West  they  heard  the  long  storm  of 
rebellion  die  out  in  battle  after  battle,  like  the 
reverberations  of  more  and  more  distant  thunder: 
when  the  sky  cleared  and  the  new  age  began,  the 
face  of  England  was  to  their  eyes  wholly  changed. 
Yet  among  so  much  that  was  alien,  some  dear 
possessions,  some  living  friendships  still  remained 
to  them,  even  in  the  world  of  time.  They  went 
again  and  again  with  Joan  to  Mount  Grace  :  they 
found  Nicholas  Love,  as  always,  more  human  than 
the  rule  he  professed.  Edmund,  too,  they  kept  for 
a  few  memorable  years,  and  they  stood   at   last  in 

2  B 


386  LIGHT  IN  THE   WEST 

the  brilliant  crowd  which  saw  him  wedded  to  his 
Lucia,  before  an  altar  heaped  high  with  the  Vis- 
conti  gold.  Prouder  still,  in  spite  of  its  sorrow, 
must  have  been  that  day,  a  few  months  afterwards, 
when  they  heard  of  his  heroic  death,  achieved  in  a 
forlorn  hope  from  the  sea  against  the  pirate  castle 
of  St  Brieuo. 


THE   END. 


PRINTED  BY   WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD   AND  30NS 


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